


Don't Ever Tell

by RideHimTilHeLikesIt



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Abuse, Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Barebacking, Bondage and Discipline, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Depression, Drug Use, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Relationships, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Forced, Forced Ejaculation, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Graphic Description, Grooming, Internalized Homophobia, Intimacy, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Men Crying, Mental Health Issues, Molestation, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Oral Sex, Pain, Painful Sex, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Repressed Memories, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Secrets, Self-Denial, Sexual Assault, Sleep Deprivation, Sleep Groping, Slow Burn, Slurs, Smoking, Smut, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Suicidal Thoughts, Trust Issues, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26439655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RideHimTilHeLikesIt/pseuds/RideHimTilHeLikesIt
Summary: Mickey Milkovich had a very damaging and traumatic childhood, to put it simply. And it's never quite been something he's forgotten about, reliving painful, haunting memories more often than not lately. The experiences from his past have made it difficult to form relationships and has made his self worth completely plummet into the ground. Only by coming face to face with his past trauma can Mickey ever hope to heal. And it seemed to be at the most unexpected time that he'd suddenly meet a tall, redheaded stranger that would help him do just that.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Lip Gallagher, Ian Gallagher & Mandy Milkovich, Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Lip Gallagher/Mandy Milkovich, Mandy Milkovich & Mickey Milkovich, Mickey Milkovich/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 95





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **TRIGGER WARNING**  
> Please review all tags before beginning!^^^  
> This will be a multi-chapter fic, but I'm not sure how long yet or how often I will update. It's currently unedited, but will be gradually gone through as I have time. But for anyone who doesn't mind, and is interested in a dark, graphic tale of abuse, with a strong hope for redemption in the end, here it is.

Mickey often had a lot of trouble sleeping. He doesn't really remember when it started, but he also doesn't recall ever really sleeping very well to begin with. 

He had always been restless, even as a child, though the type of household he was forced to grow up in didn't help that much either. It was always loud, cold, and crowded, even into the wee hours of the night. Especially since his mother had died when he was just a toddler, and his little sister just an infant, there was no one to comfort him on these restless nights either. 

Mickey had tried to find a way to cope with it over the years, that among so much else, but nothing ever seemed to work besides drinking and the ocassional blunt of some really good weed. But even now, as he lay in his very own bed, far away from that prison of a house he'd been trapped in as a child, and all the noise and abuse and torment that came with it, he still couldn't sleep. His mind just wouldn't stop, and often times there wasn't much he could seem to do about it. 

He'd thought that maybe after he'd grown up and gotten out of that house, that he would be happier, more comfortable, calmer. Mickey was really excited that maybe finally he might get some rest since he'd found ways to rid himself of the constraints that had bound him down through his earlier years. He'd gone much more straight and narrow, having tried his best to cut all ties to his family's illegal business activities, and instead held a steady and dependable job as a dishwasher at a small diner not far away from his apartment. The pay wasn't much, but at least the money wasn't dirty. Even still, when Mickey would climb into bed most nights, his brain would race again, refusing to offer him any relief. 

Instead he would simply lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling until his brain would finally succumb to exhaustion and turn off, only to be awakened a short while later by nightmares and subconscious terrors in his sleep. 

Tonight was no different, as he finally drifted off, only to be forced into reliving a night that feels like so very long ago. The very first time it happened to him.

He was about five years old, almost six, and finally had a bedroom all to himself after being separated from the room he once shared with his sister, for reasons unbeknownst to him at the time. This night was like most any other, with the little boy curled up beneath three blankets, trying to stay warm in a house that had no heat, all the while trying to ignore the near deafening blare of music booming harshly from behind his bedroom door. He could also hear the drunken, slurring hollaring and laughter of his father and his buddies from the room just beyond the hallway, keeping him up and jolting him back awake every single time he began to fall asleep. But Mickey just tried his best to ignore it, the same way he always did, because if his father found out he was still awake, no matter the reason, he would probably be stuck trying to sleep with a bruised up ass. So he just laid there. 

But then something unusual happened, something that never had before, and the knob of Mickey's bedroom door slowly turned and cracked open just the slightest bit. His eyes cracked as well at the invasion of light, but just for an instant, seeing the silhouette of a grown man standing within his doorway. He quickly closed his eyes once more, his mind confused as his chest tightened with just the slightest bit of fear, and he heard his door close again, the harsh, heavy sounds of the man's sour, stale breath still lingering in the air. 

The little boy stayed frozen, his grip turning hard and white as his fingers curled more tightly around his blanket, and he chanced another small peek through only a single eye. Mickey recognized the man, whose name he knew was Peter, a long time friend of both his father and his uncles, even referred to by Mickey and his siblings as "Uncle" even though he was of no blood relation. He was about the same age as his father, with the very same beer gut type shape to his front, and a sweaty, stubbly face that bore deep, dark wrinkles around his eyes. He had thick, bushy eyebrows and round, meaty fingers, and he always smelled like a box of take-out that'd been left in a car on a hot, summer day. But he was still a familiar face nonetheless, so the boy's initial fear calmed just a bit. 

Mickey watched him for a second, suddenly wondering why this man was standing in his bedroom though. But Mickey didn't want to be seen awake either, and just closed his eye again, staying quiet, and thinking maybe the man would just leave and let him try to sleep. He didn't though. Peter stayed.

The man sort of hovered there for a moment, his stance swaying slightly as he grumbled up a small burp and tried his best to scan the darkened room around him. He sniffed hard through his nose and smacked his lips as he looked, dropping a single hairy fist to grab and grope at the crotch of his pants. Peter took a few short stumbled steps toward the corner of the little boy's bedroom, beginning to fumble with his belt and zipper, causing Mickey to peek again and watch what he was doing. 

Peter made his way fully into the corner, angled so that the silent little watcher in the bed nearby could see the profile of his form, then placed one hand against the wall as he tipped his head back and began to relieve himself onto the floor. He let out a long, heavy sigh as he did, and Mickey crinkled his nose in disgust as he suddenly couldn't look away. It repulsed him to know that he would probably be the one blamed for that and forced to clean it up tomorrow, and the thought just made him mad. But then the young boy's anger turned into confusion as Peter finished taking his piss, and began to give his cock a little more of a shake than what was typical when you're done. 

After Peter had finished and gave himself two small shakes, he paused when moving to tuck himself back away. Instead he licked his lips again, glanced down at his flacid cock, and pulled a much longer, slower stroke, exhaling again as he did. Then almost immediately, Mickey saw the man's shaft begin to swell, and harden within his hand, watching as Peter let his back rest against the wall and he pleasured himself very openly, perhaps thinking that he was all alone. 

Now Mickey was still pretty young, and hadn't really started masturbating himself yet. But he's walked in on his older brothers doing it, and once his father, which was instantly followed by a rather severe beating and being sternly scolded into knocking before he opened doors. He doesn't really understand it though, or the feeling it gives him watching Peter do it just a few feet away from him. He wasn't sure if the feeling was still disgust, or if it was something different, giving him a strange twisting feeling inside his guts that he just couldn't describe. But what Mickey knew for sure, is that he shouldn't be watching this, that it was private and wrong for him to peep at the man the way he was, even if he was just in his own room.

He tried to very slowly, roll his body a different way, shifting beneath his blankets to turn around and ignore Peter as best he could until he was gone. But the man against the wall suddenly tipped his head forward, noticing him move, and paused his own movements, as Mickey froze in reaction. His first instinct was to pretend to be asleep, so that's what he did. Closing his eyes, and letting an exhale pass through his nose, silently hoping that since Peter had noticed him, he may just leave right now. But again, Peter didn't.

Mickey laid there as still as he could, his nerves making the hairs on his neck stand on end, and he listened to Peter breathe, the sensation of the man's blurry, bloodshot eyes still on him. Then he heard the sound of heavy footsteps that were trying to be much lighter than they were, and Peter's breath got closer too. Mickey heard him pause beside his bed, only his breathing, and slight jingle of his still unfastened belt buckle dangling from his pants. 

Then the same fleshy rubbing sound as before slowly began again, the same sound Mickey had heard when Peter had first begun pulling on his cock. That's when Mickey realized the man must be standing over him, doing this right next to him, and the fear suddenly came back with a force as he still tried his best not to appear conscious. Then suddenly there was a hand in his hair, gently grasping to turn his head around to face the sound, and he exhaled again as he tried not to tremble and kept his eyes closed.

He felt that same hand softly caress his scalp with it's thumb, then move down the side of his face to do the same with his cheek. All the while, Mickey could hear the other hand rubbing, grasping and gripping along Peter's cock, right next to his face, so closely he could almost feel the heat that radiated off the movement. Then Peter's thumb smoothed a little lower down the boy's cheek, rubbing the pad of it along his bottom lip, and pulled it down a bit. His thumb then pushed into the boy's mouth just the slightest bit, and Peter exhaled approvingly from above him. 

Then the sensation that Mickey felt next, he wasn't quite sure what was causing it at first, but it didn't take long for him to realize. Suddenly there was a warm, smooth, feeling of skin moving over his cheek that didn't belong to a finger. That fleshy stroking sound was suddenly right up against the side of his face, and Peter began to rub the head of his cock along his cheek and lips, softly moaning as his hand stroked a little faster. 

Mickey was petrified, and was at a complete loss of what to do, his brain not allowing him to do anything more than remain frozen, pretending to be sleeping and unaware of the grown man currently assaulting him. But was it assault, really? Mickey had heard that word before and even though he didn't exactly know what it meant, he was pretty sure it meant to hurt somebody. This didn't hurt though, this just felt strange, weird and uncomfortable, and it kinda gave him the urge to become sick. He didn't know how to stop it if he tried though, so in fear and discomfort, he just laid there, letting Peter do what he did and just waited for it to be over. It only got worse though.

Peter continued to caress one hand through Mickey's hair, as his other jerked his cock against his face, then pulled his lip down again to get a little saliva along the tip. The man's breath trembled at the sensation, and his movements slowed with hesitation, just before he did it again, rubbing the head of his cock along the inside of the boy's lower lip. Then Peter pushed a little further, carefully opening the boy's mouth wider, and his breath trembled again as he began to dip just the very head of his cock in and out from between Mickey's lips. 

Peter's cock was fat, wide and salty, stretching his mouth out very uncomfortably, even with just the head. But Mickey was still too scared to move, too scared to open his eyes, and simply laid there helpless as the man above him began to use his mouth for his own selfish pleasure. And Peter clearly relished it immesnsely, moaning a little louder and pushing his cock a little deeper and quicker along the little boy's tongue, gliding his hand roughly along his shaft as he did. He kept one hand mostly on the length of his cock, and softly held Mickey's head in place with the other, just before he let go of his cock completely to grasp Mickey's head with both hands. He pushed in much more deeply, and suddenly thrust hard enough to trigger Mickey's gag reflex. And as hard as he tried to fight it off, he wasn't able to stop it completely, his eyes opening wide as he felt the head of the man's cock push against his throat. 

When Peter noticed though, he didn't stop, or snap out of what he was doing, and he didn't let up either. He quietly shushed the boy, then grasped his head tighter as he continued to fuck his face, the man's large, hairy ballsack beginning to smack lightly against his cheek. Mickey pulled his hands out from under his blanket at that, and began to struggle and grasp at the man's hands and arms, but it didn't change a thing. Peter was too strong, and just simply ignored his attempts to stop the assault and continuing as he liked, even chuckling slightly as he peered down from over him. 

Mickey's eyes watered, his head began to pound, and every single time Peter thrust too deep, he was sure he would've ended up puking all over him had he gotten any sort of dinner before bed. His hands struggled in vain as he scratched and grasped and pulled, feeling thin and weak against the big, bulky muscles of an adult the size of Peter. Then the man sped up even more, practically ramming the head of his cock against the little boy's tonsils, and Mickey felt two hot trails of tears begin burning into his cheeks. 

He couldn't breathe at all, his coughs and gags muffled miserably around Peter's cock, and Mickey began to cry, sobbing where he lay because now it just hurt. He was terrified, choking and his vision began to go blurry when his head pounded harder. Peter moaned deeply, and pleasurably, cursing hotly down at the sight in front of him, and showing absolutely no mercy to the tight little mouth he was thrusting inside of. 

Then Peter pushed the side of Mickey's head more deeply into his pillow, and grasped his other hand around his throat, squeezing tight as he pushed his cock as deeply as he could into the boy's mouth. Mickey squirmed helplessly as Peter pressed his weight into him and thrust shallowly, yet roughly, into the little boy's throat, refusing to pull any back out or give him any chance to breathe yet. Right when Mickey's vision began to spot and his brain felt like a balloon, the man above him groaned much more deeply, and the sensation of a hot, sticky burst of fluid suddenly poured quite forcibly down his throat. There was so much of it, and nothing he could do to get it back out of his mouth, the sour, salty flavor twisting his guts with repulsion and making his entire body shake with disgust. 

Peter's thrusts slowed, and became a bit more gentle as he pulled his weight back and loosened his hands a bit, whispering small words of praise as his balls drained of their last spurts of cum. Then as Peter pulled his cock from Mickey's mouth and the little boy began coughing, sputtering and gasping for air, he soothingly combed the fingers of one hand through the little boy's black hair, as the other held his still softening cock. He licked his lips as he eyed the boy who was desperately trying to catch his breath, then leaned back forward just a bit. He made Mickey flinch when he slapped the soft, wet head of his cock against his face a few final times, smiling grossly as he did, and seemed to take quite a bit of pleasure in admiring the boy's puffy, red face and wet, swollen lips. 

Mickey was still petrified, scared that if he moved or suddenly screamed for his father that things would only become worse for him, whether it be because of his father or Peter. Instead he just laid there trembling, staring up at the man he calls Uncle Peter, feeling embarrassed, humiliated, violated and confused, just wishing he would leave now and never come back. The man held his smile on Mickey as he very slowly began to tuck himself away inside his pants, his belt buckle jingling again as he pulled his zipper up. Then he paused once more and brought his index finger to his lips. 

"Shh," Peter whispered, "This is our little secret. So don't ever tell anyone," he warned softly, then leaned forward to look more directly into the boy's eyes who still laid trembling from beneath his blanket, "You're old enough to know what happens to people who snitch, don't ya?" Peter asked. 

But Mickey was still much too afraid to speak, so Peter just answered his own question instead. 

"Bad things, Bud," Peter said, "Really bad things," he emphasized, "So you better do right to keep our little secret here, or I might think you're a snitch. You understand?" 

The little boy trembled in fear, staring at the man and managed a single small nod, but otherwise didn't move, didn't blink, watching as he raised his finger back to his lips once more and quietly shushed him again as he nodded in approval. 

"Good," Peter whispered with a grin, then reached down to ruffle his hair in the playful manner that he typically would, "Now go back to sleep," he said.

Then just the same as he had entered, Peter turned around, and stumbled back over to the boy's bedroom door and stepped out into the hall, pulling it closed behind him. When the man was gone Mickey had immediately started coughing and gagging all over again, hoping that he could make himself vomit, but nothing came up no matter how much he heaved. Then he curled back up under his blanket to cry again, and didn't get a single wink of sleep that night. 

Much the same as now, whenever Mickey's brain forced him to recall his experience, it would immediately cause him to jolt out of bed and run for his bathroom. Whatever dinner he'd managed to have just a few hours earlier is now being flushed down the toilet, and his entire body trembled, shook and became slick with a chilly, sickly sweat. And it would become another night of absolutely no sleep, not even wanting to go back to his bed. Instead Mickey sat on the floor of his bathroom, pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, then dipped his head low, and just cried. Nope, he wouldn't be getting any more rest tonight, even if he tried. 

This was something that Mickey struggled with, and felt overwhelming shame over ever since that very first time it happened to him. He'd always thought that maybe somehow it was his own fault, that he could have done something more to stop it or prevent it from happening altogether. Maybe not when it first began, being just a little kid at the time, but he definitely thought he could have done more as the years passed, and each experience just kept getting worse and worse. It made him feel weak, pathetic and emasculated, like he had been damaged beyond repair and there was nothing he could do about it. 

He laid awake crying at night more often than not, afraid that if he does finally fall asleep, he'll only be awoken an hour later by some grueling, torturous nightmare, forced to endure such memories all over again, as that's what would usually happen. It was a part of him that Mickey never shared with anyone, no one, simply because he was told not to by Peter all those years ago. Not to mention how humiliating the whole thing is to even consider speaking about aloud. What good would it do him now anyway? The way Mickey figured, everyone had their shit, and this shit was his own to deal with, even if some nights he was barely keeping it together enough to deal with it at all. 

It was like a curse, and he was just forced to endure, constantly wondering if he would ever find a chance at peace and rest from the torments that plagued him. But if Mickey was ever going to find that chance at all, he knew it better be soon. Because that tiny little glimmer of hope that kept him trudging onward through the darkness, that kept his head up when things felt much too hopeless, was dangerously close to being snuffed out for good.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a new guy at work, and Mickey's not so sure that he likes him very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, also unedited.  
> No graphic scenes in this one! Just thought I'd say that.  
> All feedback is greatly encouraged and appreciated!  
> Thank you.

Most mornings Mickey felt like shit, but he'd never quite figured out a way to change that. He knew it was from his lack of sleep, but without a current solution to that particular issue either, his constant irritability and exhaustion was just another thing for him to deal with. 

He worked a lot, as much as he could really. Mickey was constantly offering to work overtime, to come in early, or to stay late, whichever the diner happened to need at the time. He did it not only for the shitty pay that he needed more of for the job to be even a little worth it, but also because it was a good distraction for his mind. Well, most of the time that is. 

Mickey usually left his building just after 7:30 to catch the L and suck down a quick cigarette on his way, then arrived at the diner just before 8 to clock in, start a pot of coffee and find some breakfast before his shift was to start. He was usually one of the first to arrive each day on the morning shift, even if he happened to work an overnight as well, which he also did once in a while. 

The twenty-four hour diner that sat along a cracked, little corner on the edge of Southside, was owned by a feisty, elderly lady named Ms. Maggie, or "Mags," who wore large, purple cat-framed spectacles that hung on a long strand of fake pearls around her neck. She was a short, plump woman whose head always held a large bouquet of thick, silver curls that piled up high, usually with some brightly colored fabric flower nestled in among them. Ms. Maggie was loud, proud, and stubborn, but her heart was always in the right place. 

Mickey had learned that last fact after she'd been willing to hire him, even with finding out about his past criminal history and lack of work experience. He was twenty-five now, and had been employed as a dishwasher here for just over three years, quite a bit longer than he'd predicted he would be. 

Truthfully though, his sister also probably had a hand in helping him get hired, as she had already been a waitress here for nearly a year beforehand, though she no longer was anymore. Mandy had saved what little money she made here to pay for a PCA training program, and now works in the homes of the elderly and disabled. Mickey never quite understood why she chose that line of work in particular, but she seemed to enjoy it, and find some kind of fulfillment in it at least. Back while she did work at the diner though, Ms. Maggie had become very fond of her, and Mickey had always half wondered if hiring him was some kind of favor to Mandy. But his sister would never say for sure. 

In the mornings, Ms. Maggie was also the cook, starting her shifts bright and early and not clocking out until just around dinner time. That's when she would hand off the reigns to Nino, a rather easygoing ex-con in his late 40's, who had a thick Hispanic accent, more tattoos than blank skin, and a round, shaven head that was usually wrapped up with a black bandana. He would usually cook the dinner rush if Ms. Maggie didn't, then stayed overnight until she showed back up the next day. Mickey liked each of them and worked well with both, but for the most part pretty much still stayed to himself, because that's just the way he was. 

That particular day Mickey strode up the alleyway and entered through the back door, flicking another spent cigarette butt away and bobbing his head to a jam within a pair of earphones as he did. His stomach grumbled as he passed through the kitchen toward the cramped little staff locker area with a backpack slung across one shoulder. Mickey opened his locker and went about his business in pulling off his t-shirt, sliding his work shirt down over his beater, tying a cleaning apron around his waist, and put his other belongings away. He kept his music playing from his cellphone within his pocket though, and turned back around to scan the kitchen for something to eat, allowed free by Ms. Maggie to her staff only twice a day. Mickey usually picked breakfast and dinner, and just sipped on the also free-to-staff coffee during the rest of the day.

When he entered the kitchen, Ms. Maggie was already busy at work behind the stove, flipping eggs, frying bacon and pouring fresh pancake batter on the griddle. The food always smells wonderful, and was the sole reason that mornings in "Mag's Diner" were always extremely busy. There was already a fair sized gaggle of patrons spread out amongst the tables with their half eaten plates, as well as seated along the bar area sipping on fresh cups of coffee. 

Mickey passed behind Ms. Maggie to make another fresh pot of brew for himself, and was happy to see one just getting done instead. So he quietly set his focus on preparing a cup to drink, while the very animated older woman at the stove hummed loudly to a song inside her head beside him. Then the woman finally seemed to notice him there, and began waving her spatula at him to get his attention. Mickey noticed her as well, and pulled a single speaker from his ear with a glance over his shoulder and continued preparing his cup of coffee. 

"Mornin' Mags," Mickey greeted, to which the woman smiled, and turned back around to flip a few more eggs. 

"Mornin' Sunshine," Ms. Maggie smiled, "Bright and early today like always, I see," she chirped merrily, "Early to bed, early to rise. That's what they say, right?" the woman hummed. 

Mickey internally cringed, not wanting to reminisce on how he spent his night last night, or any other, but wasn't one to offer up much personal details anyway. So his noncommittal grunt he responded with was typical, and merely giggled at by his boss. The woman then flicked her brow toward the coffee pot beside him, glancing over as he finally began to take a sip from his cup. 

"Made it nice and strong, just how ya like it," Ms. Maggie winked. 

Mickey couldn't help the smallest smile at that, as the old woman was always nothing but considerate of Mickey, of everyone who was lucky enough to be taken under her wing in some way. He has never been one to ask for much, as doing so had been pretty thoroughly beaten out of him rather early on in life, and with Ms. Maggie, he never seemed to have to anyway. She kinda just seemed to know, most of the time. He raised his cup a bit as he swallowed his sip. 

"Thanks, Mags," said Mickey. 

"Anytime, sweetie," Ms. Maggie smiled, "You hungry?" she asked. 

Mickey pushed out his lower lip and turned to take a step toward the stove, still careful not to get in the woman's way and looked down at what she had cooking. He then gave a small point and tipped his chin. 

"Wouldn't mind a couple of those fuckin' eggs," he replied, to which the woman nodded and flicked her head again. 

"Grab a plate," she said, and Mickey did as he was told.

Mickey sat at the corner of the bar, drank his coffee and ate his plate of eggs, along with a few large strips of bacon and two slices of buttered toast that Ms. Maggie insisted he have as well. And as he ate, there was a waitress that always enjoyed hovering around him for some reason. 

Her name was Julia, had only been working at the diner for about a year, and had always seemed to have eyes for Mickey. But she could never, ever seem to take the hint that he wasn't even the slightest bit interested. The personal reasons _why_ Mickey thought he didn't find any appeal in her were his own though, and not worth saying out loud. So for the most part he just ignored her. Still though, Julia persisted. 

The pretty, young woman sauntered over in front of him from behind the bartop, and she smiled as she leaned forward to refresh his coffee cup, showing off far too much cleavage as she did. He knew she was going to try and talk to him, just like she always did. So he repressed an eyeroll and pulled a single speaker from his ear again. 

"Good morning, Mickey," Julia greeted sweetly, as she tucked a lock of curly brown hair behind her ear and stood back straight, "How are you today?" she asked. The man exhaled through his nose, shrugged, and kept his eyes on his food. 

"Same as every other," Mickey replied flatly, then dipped the corner of his toast inside an egg yolk and lifted it to take a bite, "Always better with food though," he added with a chin tip toward his plate. The woman smiled again and placed a hand on her hip.

"My days are always better with _you_ ," Julia flirted very openly. But Mickey didn't skip a beat and just scoffed as he took another bite of toast. 

"You need a fuckin' hobby then or some shit," said Mickey, "'Cause that's just kinda sad." Julia held her smile and tilted her head. 

"You really shouldn't be so hard on yourself," she replied, to which the man just scoffed again as he grabbed a napkin and began to wipe his mouth and fingers. 

"Says you," retorted Mickey.

"Fuck, you're grumpier than usual today," Julia observed, "You crawl outta the wrong side of the bed or something?" 

If by bed, she meant the cold, hard tile of his bathroom floor, then yeah. He supposed he kinda did, not that it was an unusual thing. Mickey shrugged as he picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. 

"If you wanna call it that," he mumbled.

Julia held her eyes on him and laughed lightly, causing the man to scrunch his brow, then raise it at her expectantly. She exhaled almost musically with a slight shake of her head. 

"The new guy is just gonna love you," she grinned sarcastically. 

Mickey scrunched his brow again at that as he set his mug back down, peering up at Julia with an extremely perplexed expression. 

"New guy?" he repeated, "What fuckin' new guy?" Mickey asked, "Since when is Mags hiring again?" 

"Since I told her I'm swamped and need another waitress since Jessica quit last month," Julia explained, "But she couldn't find anyone she trusted, so I've just had to deal," she said, "Finally got someone though, and he starts today." 

"So she trusts this new guy then?" Mickey wondered skeptically, "Who the fuck is he?" he pressed further, to which Julia easily replied, knowing that all of the employees that worked for Ms. Maggie were extremely protective of her. 

"I don't know," Julia admitted, "But apparently he came highly recommended," she informed him. 

"Highly recommended from who?" Mickey asked. 

"Your sister," said Julia, to which Mickey's face twisted up at that. 

"Mandy?" he wondered. 

"You got another sister that I don't know about?" the waitress smiled.

Mickey thought that was kind of a little strange, considering it takes a lot for Mandy to put her neck on the line for anyone. Even if she didn't work here anymore, she still showed up often, kept in good contact with everyone, and had a very particular reputation amongst them. So if she suggested someone for Ms. Maggie to hire, it wasn't just on a fluke. 

He took another long drink from his coffee cup, desperately still needing the caffeine, then set it down beside his plate, to which Julia picked up both to dispose of for him. Then Mickey swallowed, licked his lips and glanced around the diner. 

"This dude here yet?" he asked. 

"Sure is," Julia replied, "Mags just got him set up with an apron and a locker a couple minutes ago," she said, "Haven't had a chance to meet him myself yet though," Julia added, "But if he can survive the meal rushes for at least a week, he just might last," she shrugged optimistically. Mickey just grunted again and began to rise from his seat. 

"As long as he's not fuckin' up my dish water while he's here, I don't give a shit how long he lasts," Mickey replied. He then popped his ear bud back in as he parted from the bar and began walking back into the kitchen toward his station at the sink.

As he did though, Mickey's eyes happen to glance toward the locker area when his peripheral vision caught the slightest sudden flash of orange, and that's when he saw him. The man was tall, at least a whole head above Mickey himself, with wide, broad shoulders and a thick, chiseled jaw. He was a redhead, and challenged even Mickey in paleness, who had a meaty frame and the slightest gangly look to his legs. This must be the new guy, he figured. 

Just at a glance, Mickey didn't really have much of an opinion about him. No, not really. At least he was good at convincing himself that he didn't. That part of Mickey's brain that formed appeal and attraction, formed arousal and sexual desire, was extremely complicated for him, especially given his past trauma. It's never really been something he's thought about too deeply, because thinking about almost anything even remotely related to sex always brings about this heavy, uncomfortable, sour twist of dread inside his guts that was so fucking hard to get rid of. Mickey just never felt quite right about sex at all. And if something didn't feel right, just didn't feel _normal_ , he was pretty quick to ignore the feeling, in fear that something even worse might happen if he didn't. 

He knew that particular part of his brain never seemed to work as it should anyway, because it's never really reacted to women, or even to little girls when he was a boy. There had always been a very strong response to other boys though, and to men as he got older. But a part of him had also always wondered if maybe it was just from some kind of conditioning, that he wasn't actually _meant_ to be that way. So if he ever asked himself if he was gay, Mickey wasn't really sure on the inside. But to the outside world he would be quick to say no. Because being gay just isn't normal, right?

So Mickey did what he was good at and as the redheaded man across the kitchen tied on his apron, filling his pockets with a couple pens and a pad of paper, he looked away and got to work on washing out the meatloaf pans that'd been left to soak the night before.

Then for a while, it seemed to be business as usual, with Mickey bobbing his head to music that blared within his earphones, and all the while he scrubbed down pots and pans with suds up to his elbows. Mickey would then spray them down with the faucet hose that hung over and above him, then moves them to the drying rack, and began to wash down plates, bowls, cups and cutlery. The job felt long, and it was boring as all hell, but it was mind numbing too and that's what Mickey liked about it. 

He'd all but completely forgotten about the new server that Ms. Maggie hired, until the man suddenly dumped an entire tray of dirty dishes into a newly filled sink, contaminating his water and splashing him in the process. Mickey's jaw set tight with a frown, and he blinked a few times as he inhaled deeply and slowly through his nose, trying as best he could to put a cork in his temper before he turned his sights on this inconsiderate asshole beside him. When he did though, the prick was already turned around and rushing back into the dining area without a single glance back. Mickey watched him go, then turned his face back, sucked his teeth, and reached down into the sink to pull the plug and refill it all over again.

Then just a short while later, it happened again. There was another crash, and another splash, and this time Mickey cursed through his teeth and glared hard at the new waiter, who just as before was already quickly scurrying back out into the dining area. Mickey grasped the submerged and unsorted dirty dishes out of the sink he was using, and dropped them into the one beside it, tossing them down hard with irritation and causing a big, metallic clatter that echoed through the kitchen.

Mickey doesn't have very good patience, and this idiot was really starting to annoy him. He was determined to catch him before the next time though, because if he gets splashed and has to change his water because of this guy just one more time, Mickey was going to fucking lose it. Lucky for both of them, when the redheaded man came rushing back with another full tray in hand just as Mickey had finished refilling the sink yet again, the dishwasher noticed him. Mickey quickly raised up a stern, flat palm, halting the man in his steps, then pointed at him as he pulled one single ear bud from his ear. 

"You drop all that shit inside this sink one more fuckin' time, we're about to have a problem, man," Mickey warned bluntly, not giving a single shit if he offended the man or not, having been rather offended himself for being so carelessly splashed with his own dish water more than once already.

The redhead didn't appear to be offended at all though, more just confused than anything, taking a glance from the freshly filled sink to the tall, stacked tray of dirty dishes in his hands. He then met the dishwasher's eyes and arched his brow. 

"Oh," the man said, "My bad," he offered, then looked around a bit, "Where am I supposed to put them then?"

Mickey blinked at him, then gave a very obvious sweeping gesture of his hand toward the little counterspace beside the other sink that already held other dishes waiting to be washed. The redheaded man tipped his chin, then moved to step around him and do as he was directed, when he was suddenly halted again. 

" _After_ you clear and sort them first," he added in a tone that also sounded obvious, but the other man just paused in confusion once more. 

"After I do what?" he blurted awkwardly, like he didn't quite understand what Mickey was telling him. The dishwasher sighed with a bit of an eyeroll and looked at him like he was stupid. 

"Seriously?" Mickey said, "I really gotta explain your fuckin' job to you?" he asked.

There was an awkward beat of silence and the redhead's shoulders very slowly slumped with shame, but he didn't say anything. Mickey pressed his lips together and raised his eyebrow. 

"Ain't you ever work as wait staff anywhere before?" Mickey queried, to which the other man nodded just a little. 

"Well, yeah," he replied, "But it was just serving drinks in a club," the redhead explained, "Not really the kinda place you wanna eat anything at though," he said, "So there's just a lot more here than what I'm used to," the man added with a gesture to the tray still in his hands, "And I don't really know how things work around here yet," he admitted. 

Mickey eyed him for a moment, seeing that he was trying, and as annoyed as the man already made him, he understood that it was still his first day. So albeit unusual of Mickey, he relented just a bit and sighed once more.

"Before any of that shit comes anywhere near my station, you need to throw any leftovers into the waste bin," Mickey began to explain with a point toward the nearest one, "Otherwise it clogs up my drain, and you're gonna end up gettin' one serious fuckin' earful from me," he warned, then gestured once more to the other stacks of dishes that were waiting to be washed, "And you gotta sort 'em," Mickey added, "Plates with plates. Bowls with bowls, that kinda shit. Makes way less work for me, and that shit ain't part of my job anyway. It's yours," he pointed at him. 

"And if you're really havin' trouble with shit, just go talk to Julia out there," Mickey mentioned with a gesture toward the dining area, then scoffed over a small chuckle as he thought about the woman for a second, "I'm sure she'd love to help you," he said.

The redhead began to nod, completely oblivious to the dishwasher's last comment. And as he did, Mickey dropped his sight down to the man's chest in search of a nametag, realizing for an instant that he hadn't learned this guy's name yet. When he didn't seem to have one yet, Mickey raised his gaze again and met his eyes. 

"What the fuck am I supposed to call you?" Mickey asked, causing the other man to raise his brow again as he began sorting through his dishes as best he could, placing them in their proper places. 

"Excuse me?" the man asked back. 

"What's your name?" Mickey rephrased. 

"Oh, Ian," the redhead replied with a small, friendly smile, "And uh, I apologize for all this shit," he offered, gesturing to the dishes and the sink, "It won't happen again," said Ian. Mickey gave a single nod of approval as he replaced his ear bud. 

"It sure as fuck better not," he agreed. 

Then Mickey moved to resume his scrubbing and rinsing duties, when he realized that for some reason Ian was still standing there beside him, staring at him, and holding a tray beneath one arm that was now completely empty. Mickey stared back at him for a moment with a very bored, unimpressed blink, but the man didn't walk away yet, still just standing there with the slightest bit of a smile on his face. He pushed out another sigh in place of the groan that he swallowed, and pulled his ear bud back out, raising his brow with expectancy and annoyance. 

"You're Mickey, right?" Ian asked, earning him another blink. 

"What's it to you?" Mickey asked back. 

"I'm friends with your sister, Mandy," Ian replied, "She's the one who got me this job here," he said. The other man pushed out his lip and tipped his chin in a very uncommitted way. 

"Good for you, man," he said, then grasped his ear bud once more, pausing for just a second before he replaced it again, "We done here now?" asked Mickey. 

Mickey thought for sure that his blunt rudeness would be enough for the man to finally turn around and walk away from him. But he still didn't. Ian held the same slightest bit of a smile on his face, and traced over his expression for a moment in pondery. The other man wasn't sure if it made him uncomfortable or not, not knowing why exactly Ian was looking at him like that in the first place, and couldn't quite place his expression either. Then just before Mickey was about to finally replace his ear bud and go back to ignoring him, Ian tilted his head a bit and spoke again instead. 

"You're not much of a talker, are you?" he wondered with the slightest crease of his brow, and Mickey just tried to swallow his discomfort at the question and get back to work. 

"The fuck is there to talk about?" he asked back rhetorically, then pushed the little speaker back into his ear, returning to his zone and returning to work just as he intended. 

That time Ian did finally walk away, and Mickey was glad for it. He didn't like that the redhead had tried to become familiar with him, especially so soon, as he just didn't see a reason for it. He also didn't like having to tell someone how to do their job, and if he has to do with Ian again, Mickey probably won't be nearly as nice as he was about it the first time. So for the rest of the day Mickey just tried to ignore him, even if it proved to be a bit more difficult than he imagined it would be. 

As he washed dishes and drank far too many cups of coffee, he couldn't seem to stop himself from glancing out toward the dining area, only able to view a sliver of it from his little corner in the kitchen. Mickey wasn't sure why he kept looking, but would occasionally catch a quick glimpse of the tall redheaded waiter that would give him a small, strange fluttery feeling inside his chest. It would make him swallow, then cough, then grab his coffee again to take another drink, hoping to drown the sensation out and fizzle it away. And it usually worked, most of the time. 

But then Ian would eventually return to the kitchen to deposit more dirtied dishware on the counter, each and every time pausing beside Mickey to shoot him a small smile as he removed them from his tray to organize them beside the sink. That same fluttery, tingly, tickling feeling would return, and he would do his best just not to look at him, drinking his coffee a bit then focusing on his work and his music again. Mickey didn't like that feeling, wasn't used to it, didn't know what it meant, and really didn't like Ian very much for making him experience it. 

Not to mention how much of a distraction Ian seemed to be just standing there for those few seconds before he would clear his tray and return to the dining room. Mickey fought hard not to glance over and trace the outline of the muscles in Ian's arms each time he reached out to place another dish beside him. He noticed how speckled his skin was with freckles without even trying, for some reason drawn into a slightly larger one that rested along the middle knuckle of his thumb, forcing Mickey to swallow and look away again. 

Mickey was uncomfortable, and that was putting it lightly. He just tried his best to not look at the clock and keep himself busy. He almost forgot about Ian again completely for a little while around the time dinner was finally ending, when Ms. Maggie had left and Nino was out back having a smoke before clocking in for the night. 

That was until Ian suddenly bumped into his back when moving to step around him, causing the man to slip and accidentally dropped his entire tray of dishes into the sink, crashing down into the pool of hot, soapy suds and splashing a giant wave of it right up Mickey's chest. The dishwasher dropped the few items he had inside his grasp and ground his teeth together, lips trembling with anger as he turned his head with a burning, hot glare onto the redhead, who very clearly knew how badly he'd just fucked up.

Ian quickly raised his hands up in defense, in apology, and his eyes held wide as he watched the other man try with all his might not to explode. Julia happened to be within eyeshot, and stood near the dining room with an extremely nervous expression, unable to look away. Mickey was seething, shaking, drenched in fucking water, and his hands trembled in nearly overwhelming rage, closing into fists as he damn near bellowed through his teeth. 

"Get. The fuck. OUT!" Mickey boomed as he continued to drip from where he stood. 

The redhead didn't need to be told twice, and instantly turned around, made quick steps for the locker area, grabbed his shit, punched out on his time card and rushed out the back door without a single word.

Mickey stood there for another moment in silence, just breathing deeply and trying to compose himself. Logically, he knew it was an accident, but it didn't lessen how pissed he was in the slightest. That fluttery little feeling inside his chest was definitely gone now, replaced by a now slowly dampening pound of adrenaline and the smoldering remains of his rageful outburst. 

That's when Nino finally stepped inside from the alley, glancing behind him with a chuckle and gave a point of his thumb. 

"Who's the white boy and what's his fucking problem?" Nino grinned, then observed Mickey's current state and laughed a little louder. 

"Oh, he was runnin' for his life, eh? That why he took off so fast?" Nino wondered. 

Mickey offered him a very flat expression, then rolled his eyes as he reached to pull his still soaked apron from his neck. 

"I'm callin' it a fuckin' night, man," said Mickey, "I'll deal with this bullshit in the morning." The older Hispanic man held his grin and gave a nod. 

"I hear ya, man," Nino replied, "You want some supper before you split?" he offered, to which Mickey agreed, and walked toward the locker area to change his clothes and wait for his food to get done. 

While Nino prepared his food Mickey filled him in on who Ian was, explaining how the man's first day went as far as he could tell, and how incredibly fucking irritating he found him to be the entire fucking time. Nino had laughed at every bit of it, then boxed up a little chicken fried steak and some mashed potatoes for him, and Mickey clocked out to go catch the L home.

Then as he did, seated near a window and staring blankly outward as his music wafted through his headphones, Mickey exhaled, dreading having to go home to be alone with himself. Normally he would have worked for quite a bit longer than he did tonight, but with his mood already being shit, maybe even shittier than usual, he thought it might do him good to leave early for once. Especially after Ian had nearly, although inadvertently, turned him into a live stick of dynamite. Mickey didn't think it would be good for anyone for him to stay there any longer, so he just left instead. 

He figured he would just try his best to find a distraction, until he was out of options and was stuck laying awake in bed at 2 am all over again. But as much Mickey dreaded it, that was just normal for him. When he would clock out, he would bring home his dinner and eat while watching reruns of whatever he could find on television. Then it was kinda just fucking around until he began to get tired, and the battle would begin once more. But that was Mickey's life, and that's just the way it was. 

Mickey also still couldn't stop thinking about Ian, about how angry the man had made him, choosing to ignore the other, much more unspeakable sensation the other man had somehow thrust upon him earlier in the day. He thought it better and safer to focus on the aggravation and irritability instead, because those were emotions that Mickey was comfortable with, ones he could understand. 

No, he really didn't think that he liked him very much, and Mickey was fairly certain that such a feeling probably wasn't going to change any time soon, if at all. The man just didn't seem to fit right and Mickey couldn't figure out why the fuck his sister would recommend Ian in the first place. It just didn't make sense to him, and that bothered him too. 

Ian probably wasn't going to last anyway, at least it didn't really seem like he would even return after tonight when Mickey restrained himself from unloading on him completely. Maybe it should bother Mickey that he may have doomed the guy. But to be fair, he hadn't really had very high hopes for him anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olive branch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm just gonna say pretty much every chapter I post is unedited, but will be revised later. So please excuse any typos. Thank you.  
> No graphic scenes in this chapter either, in case anyone was nervous about that.  
> All feedback is greatly appreciated! Enjoy.

It had been about a week since the incident between Ian and Mickey, and the entire time, the redhead had done absolutely everything he could to steer clear of him. Though for the most part, Mickey was absolutely fine with that. 

There was no more attempt at conversation or even eye contact anymore, if Ian could avoid it. And he was always quick to deposit the contents of his dish tray quickly and quietly, most of the time even having them pre-sorted before he even walked up. Then most importantly, to Mickey anyway, he was _much_ more tentative when moving to step behind the other man while he was at the sink, giving them both nearly a complete arm's reach of space between them. 

It may have seemed a little tense and awkward from an outside eye, and maybe to the redhead it felt that way. But Mickey was much more comfortable doing his job for the first time since Ian had been hired, because now he was much less of a distraction for him. Ocassionally, Mickey would still take a glance though, when he had the chance, unable to deny the urge completely for very long. 

Sometimes he would still subtly peer out into the dining area hoping to catch another glimpse of him, since Ian was now so quick to get away from him every time they were in vicinity of each other. It was one of the only times Mickey got much of a chance to see him now, the only time he might catch just the slightest tickling hint of that fluttery feeling from before. Even if he still smothered the feeling with clearing his throat, taking big gulps of coffee and utilizing the ocassional cigarette break, part of Mickey kind of just wanted to feel it again once in a while. 

He still didn't know what it was though, why it was there or what it meant. So when the sensation would begin to make him nervous, Ian avoiding him made it easy to ignore him again. And that's what Mickey did. Until that is, Ian started avoiding him in ways that were quite a bit harder to simply ignore and brush off. In some instances his level of determination to do so, honestly just seemed a little ridiculous, even to Mickey.

To begin with, the very first morning after the incident when Mickey was walking down the alleyway to enter the back door of the diner, he happened to look up and see Ian arriving from down at the other end. Then the instant the redhead had noticed him there his eyes went wide, his feet stopped and he froze for just a second, right before he turned around rather quickly. He then walked back down the way he came and turned the corner, presumably to either go through the front or circle the building once to give Mickey a chance to go inside first. The dishwasher had just scoffed, chuckled, shook his head and went on in. After that Ian seemed to have made an effort to not let them run into each other like that again, and for the rest of week he just happened to show up about ten minutes later than he did the first time.

At first Mickey found it a little funny, but then began to wonder if Ian really thought that Mickey was still mad at him? Did he think that Mickey was going to go off on him again over something else that seems accidental or small? Probably. But just the redhead's mere presence wasn't enough to merit that kind of response from Mickey. He wasn't an unreasonable person. But Ian didn't really have any way to know that, he supposed. So Mickey just let the man avoid him, for the most part.

For the first two days or so though, Ian seemed to go out of his way to avoid Mickey a little _too_ much. He would wait until his trays were stacked as high as he could possibly get them, sometimes almost teetering as he tiptoed into the kitchen, just to lessen the amount of times in a day he would have to be around him. And the first few times, Mickey found that a little comical too. 

Until Ian slipped just the slightest bit when moving to set them beside the sink, causing the entire stack to shuffle and wobble for just a split second. Both men froze with wide eyes, the feeling of deja vu heavy in the air, and they met eachother's gaze for the first time since the last time this happened. Mickey shot him a very clear wordless look of warning, and Ian offered the slightest single nod, agreeing not to do this anymore. So then it went back to just silence between them, normally stacked trays being deposited beside the sink while completely ignoring the other's existence. And Mickey was okay with that too, for a while.

Then Mickey learned that Ian was also a smoker, like himself, and they would often run into each other out back in the alley, each running for a quick smoke during moments that orders from customers would die down for a bit. If the redhead happened to be out there first when Mickey came out, he was quick to put his cigarette out, even if he didn't look finished and head back inside. Then if Mickey happened to be the one outside first, Ian would end up doing this revolving door kind of movement, and instantly turn right back around to return inside the second he saw him. 

The dishwasher would scoff, sigh, and rub his brow every single time, wondering when the fuck this man was finally going to let up and just act like a normal person again. But it didn't seem like that was going to happen any time soon.

It was just after dinner time again, on a Friday night, and Nino was busy at the stove frying up a few meatloaf sandwiches for both his own, as well as Mickey's supper. Ian was clearing plates and collecting bills, pausing in between to wipe down tables, and was generally just doing busy work. The redhead definitely wasn't lazy, Mickey would give him that. Julia mostly kept track of the bar area, clearing plates, refilling beverages, and winking at the old men who liked to give her extra tips. 

Mickey then sat on his usual corner of the bar, taking a short break to eat supper, and have a smoke after, then probably get back to work for a few more hours before finally heading home for the night. He ate his sandwich with fries and a little side of coleslaw, his headphones in his ears as they always were, and he was pretty much just minding his own business. 

Again though, Mickey couldn't help but notice that same tall, redheaded waiter that was now serving a table just a few feet away, his eyes ocassionally flickering over a bit as he chewed. He watched Ian bend slightly to reach forward on the table and grab an empty plate to put on his tray. Then as he did Mickey's eyes moved from his hair, down the back of his neck, and across the top of his shoulders, once again tracing the lines of his muscles. His gaze then moved slowly down the length of his back to his hips, and he felt his guts twist uncomfortably when he saw the black belt around his waist. 

It was a strange, awful, almost painful sensation that pulled violently at his guts and almost made him want to vomit. Mickey doesn't like belts, doesn't even own any himself, especially not a black one. He doesn't like seeing them or touching them, the feel of fake, hardened leather on his skin, on his body, was nauseating. And the sounds they make are the worst; the metallic jingle of the buckle as it dangles from one end, and the harsh, loud snap of the strap itself when it's suddenly pulled really tight. His stomach became queasy when he saw it, and his face twisted a bit. 

Just as the sight nearly forced him to look away, the redhead turned around with a full tray of dishes in his hands and met his eyes, noticing his extremely discomforted expression. Ian paused and creased his brow a bit, clearly confused by the look the other man had on his face. But Mickey, in his awkward, and unexplainable embarrassment, just simply looked away again, back down at his food and reached to take a drink from his always present cup of coffee instead. He felt the waiter walk past him, and he refused to watch the man on his way out to the kitchen, now trying his best to forget why he suddenly became so repulsed and uncomfortable in the first place. 

That's when Julia suddenly appeared from down the bar, leaning over to top off his cup as she always did, but paused and remained where she stood when she was done. Mickey took a slow, deep breath through his nose, then exhaled, before he finally met her gaze and pulled a single speaker from his ear. Julia placed a hand on her hip, and raised her brow. 

"Come on. You gotta take it easier on Ian," Julia said, "You know what happened on his first day was a fucking accident and it could've happened to anyone," she insisted. 

Mickey's head slowly tilted, as his face scrunched up at her words, not understanding what the fuck was bringing on this little defense stance of hers, or why anything he did or how he behaves toward anyone else has anything to do with her. He pressed his lips together and blinked a few times, then arched an eyebrow of his own. 

" _Why_ the fuck are you yakkin' at me about this shit right now?" Mickey asked, then tilted his head the other way, "And also, who the _fuck_ asked you anyway?" he pressed further with a testy smirk.

"You've been acting like an asshole to him ever since," the woman accused, to which the man scoffed. 

"Not really though," Mickey replied with a head shake. 

And he honestly thought that was true. If anything, Mickey had been actively trying to _ignore_ him ever since, which was the complete opposite of being an asshole, in his own opinion anyway. But Julia didn't look even slightly convinced, going as far as to set down her coffee pot and cross her arms in front of her chest. 

"He thinks that you hate him," Julia informed, and Mickey couldn't control the chuckle of absurdity that escaped his mouth at that. 

"I don't even fuckin' know the guy," he countered with a simple shrug.

The waitress looked at Mickey very flatly, then let a very long, heavy exhale pass through her nose, and blinked. 

"Give him a chance, Mickey," Julia directed lightly, "He's a really nice guy, and he's just trying to get his shit together," she said, "We all know how that is." 

"I really think you're blowin' this shit way outta proportion," Mickey replied, "Besides, I don't give a shit about the guy, or what the fuck his life is like," he continued bluntly, honestly, looking at the woman like she was crazy to think that he felt any differently, "That ain't got nothin' to do with me, Jules," he said. 

"Your sister really seems to like him," she reminded, and at that Mickey just rolled his eyes. 

"Gee, I wonder why," said Mickey.

"That might not be it," Julia replied, but the man seated in front of her disagreed. 

"No offense to my sister, but that's almost always it with Mandy," Mickey laughed. 

Julia looked a little annoyed with his stubbornness, and uncrossed her arms to pick her coffee pot back up. 

"I'm just saying, maybe get to know him a little. Talk to him," she requested lightly, "Because he's really not that bad," said Julia. 

At that Mickey groaned, rolled his eyes again, then picked his sandwich back up to take a large bite and continued eating as he spoke. 

"What the fuck for?" Mickey almost spat back as he chewed, "Talk about what?" he wondered, "And why?" Mickey questioned further, "I don't understand why everyone keeps wanting me to talk," he said, his own annoyance clear and thick his tone. 

"Maybe we just wanna know you, Mickey," said Julia, "You gotta let somebody in once in a while," she said. 

The man then sighed again, really not liking where this conversation was going one bit, and rubbed his brow as he kept his face downward toward his plate. 

"Can you please just let me eat my fuckin' food in peace?" he asked insistently, wanting the woman to turn the fuck around and leave him alone now.

Julia sighed as well, and shook her head at him.

"You can't keep the whole world shut out forever," she said, then finally walked away. 

_Watch me._ Mickey thought, swallowing another mouthful, then grabbing a few fries to chomp down on as well. What business was it of Julia's anyway? And where the fuck did she get the nerve to say shit like that? She doesn't know anything about Mickey's personal life, and just made a blind assumption, even if she wasn't exactly wrong about it. It still just felt rude and out-of-line though, and Mickey really hoped she would keep her mouth shut around him for the rest of the night. He was irritated now more than anything, not that his mood is ever really the greatest to begin with. But now he was just grumpy, really fucking grumpy, and he needed a fucking cigarette.

Mickey crammed a few more mouthfuls of food past his lips, chewing with a wide, open mouth as he stood up from his seat and walked back through the kitchen to the alleyway exit. He pushed open the heavy, metal door with a loud, scratchy creak, then let it slam shut behind him. Mickey then walked over to a stack of wooden produce crates that stood beside the dumpster against the brick wall, and hopped up to sit on them, now fishing through his pockets for his cigarette pack. He then lit a single cigarette, leaned back into the brick of the building, pulled a thick drag and exhaled a large bluish puff of smoke above his head.

Mickey's not really much of a people person, and he especially doesn't like when people try to impose their opinions on him about his personal life when they don't know anything about it. He thought he did a pretty good job keeping people at a distance and that his life was better that way. When you form friendships and relationships with others, they expect things of you, and you expect things of them. But what if the person just can't live up to what the other wants and needs? If you have no expectations, then you can't be disappointed, right?

But as he sat there smoking his cigarette, Mickey still couldn't seem to get Julia's words out of his head. They just kept nagging at him, bothering him and irritating him, like a dislodged eyelash that'd become trapped behind an eyelid from being rubbed at too hard. And he frowned as he sat there, pushing out a puff of smoke through his nose and glaring across the alley. 

What kept bugging him most for some reason though, is Ian's mysterious relationship with his sister. Mickey knew for certain that Mandy had never mentioned the man's name before, not to him. If he was an important enough person to do such a favor for though, like hook him up with a job at Mag's, how exactly did they know each other? Was this guy some secret boyfriend or something? If so, why would she keep him a secret? If Ian is such a nice guy, he'd definitely be several steps up from any other man she's dated in the past. So he just didn't understand the situation at all, and it bugged more and more, the longer he thought on it.

Then as though Mickey's thoughts had conjured him into reality, the alleyway door suddenly swung back open again, and out walked a tall, oblivious redhead who was quickly reaching for his cigarettes and lighter like he needed them right that instant. He lit a cigarette, sucked in a deep, long drag and exhaled as he took a few steps forward, staring up at the sky. Mickey stayed quiet where he sat for a moment just looking at him and took one ear bud out of his ear, waiting to see if Ian would do what he usually did when he finally noticed him there. And he was right, because the instant the redhead turned some and laid eyes on him, he froze, coughed on his smoke, then immediately moved to put his cigarette out and walk back inside. But the dishwasher still seated upon the stack of produce crates frowned hard at that, and finally said something about it, because he'd had enough of this shit. 

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, man. Will you give this shit a fuckin' rest?" Mickey all but snapped, "What the fuck do you think I'm gonna do to you, huh?" he asked incredulously, "Think I'm gonna get up and clock you? Pull out a fuckin' gun and pop your ass?" he continued further, absolutely fed up with everything today, including this guy, "Do I look like I got laser eyes that can blow your fuckin' head up or somethin'?" 

Mickey stared at him with a ridiculous, boggle-eyed expression, as the redhead stared back with an expression similar to that of a deer caught in a pair of headlights. Then Mickey looked away, sighed heavily, waved a loose palm at him, and went back to smoking his cigarette. 

"Fuck," Mickey said, "Just, enough already," he breathed out with a cloud of smoke.

There was a short moment of silence, where the redhead stayed paused in his steps, still holding the cigarette that he hadn't quite extinguished yet. And Mickey just went back to ignoring him, the same way he ignored everybody and tipped his head back to rest against the brick as he smoked. Ian seemed to look him over in thought, considering what Mickey said, then let his shoulders drop a bit and gave a single nod. 

"Okay," Ian accepted, to which Mickey simply exhaled another drag. 

Then Ian took a few puffs from his own, gradually and somewhat awkwardly, making slow steps closer to Mickey, like he was carefully testing the waters, seeing if they were safe. He then made a small point to another stack of produce crates beside him and slightly raised an eyebrow. 

"Mind if I sit?" Ian asked. The other man shrugged. 

"It's a free country, man," said Mickey.

With that Ian cracked a small smile, looking a little accomplished, and moved to do just that, careful not to shift the stack, or sit too closely. Normally, Mickey would have just replaced his ear bud and went back into his own little bubble. But he also figured with the redhead already not thinking the best of him, maybe it's just not the time to be seen as rude. They have to work together daily, after all. Then Ian seemed to extend a bit of an olive branch as well, and took the opportunity to apologize. 

"Look, I'm really sorry for what happened on Monday," he offered, "Like, _really_ sorry," he emphasized. The other man gave a nod as he blew out a puff of smoke. 

"You should be," Mickey replied, "Just watch where you're going," he shrugged, like it was a really simple thing to do. And Ian nodded too. 

"I will," he assured, "It won't happen again," said Ian. The dishwasher scoffed. 

"You said that already," Mickey reminded, "And then it did."

At that, Ian's demeanor changed a little, and he actually looked annoyed himself at how Mickey was suddenly acting. But instead of backing down like Mickey thought he would, Ian called him on it. 

"You don't have to be so fucking demeaning," Ian informed, "It was an honest accident," he insisted. 

"An honest accident that drenched me in a boiling hot fucking tidal wave," Mickey scoffed, "Be more careful," he said. The redhead was starting to look a little angry as his jaw set tight and he stuck his chin up a bit. 

"I apologized already," Ian said. 

"And your apology really don't mean shit to me, Red," Mickey replied, "I just don't wanna end up getting scorched again because of your fuckin' clumsiness." 

Ian's frown set deeper, and his gaze turned into a glare, staring at the man beside him with a clear expression of aggravation. Mickey may not have intended to piss the guy off, but he wasn't one to back down either, so he didn't. He wasn't even really sure why he was being so hard on him, knowing that he had no real reason to be, and that Ian _did_ apologize. He was really just being stubborn more than anything else, until the next thing the other man said caught him off guard in one of the worst ways. 

"Why do you insist on being such an asshole?" Ian spat, "Did someone hurt you as a child?" he dared. 

Mickey felt his skin go cold, and he was sure all of the blood immediately drained from his face as his mouth went dry and his heart suddenly pounded much harder than before. The question almost made him shut down, even if he knew it was typically just used as a figure of speech, and it just hit way too close to home for him. But instead of shutting down, his brain told him to react with anger, quickly changing the subject with the very first thing that came to mind. 

"How the fuck do you know my sister?" Mickey asked suddenly, to which the redhead now seemed to be the one caught off guard at that. He creased his brow and shook his head. 

"What?" Ian blurted, but the other man just pressed further. 

"Mandy, my sister," Mickey clarified slowly, "How the fuck do you know her?" he asked again.

Ian looked a bit perplexed and confused as to why they were suddenly changing the subject, pausing for a moment like his words had gotten stuck inside his throat. He then blinked a few times and shook his head again. 

"What does it matter?" Ian asked back. 

"Because she's my sister," Mickey replied, "It ain't a difficult question," he said. 

"I told you. We're friends," Ian reminded, but his response only narrowed Mickey's eyes more. 

"What kinda friends?" Mickey pressed, to which the redhead scoffed rather boldly. 

"Are you her fucking keeper or something?" he accused bluntly.

Mickey clenched his jaw a bit, and rolled it around, really not liking how Ian kept evading his questions. He might be acting a little pushy, but Mandy was family, and he wasn't going to be anything less than the stubborn, protective asshole that he's always been when it comes to her. And since the redhead was being blunt, Mickey figured that he ought to just be blunt himself. 

"Come on, man," Mickey smirked, "If you're fuckin' her, just say you're fuckin' her," he said, "Believe me, you definitely ain't the first, and you sure as fuck won't be the last," Mickey chuckled, "Mandy's a hard one to tie down." 

He thought he'd hit the nail on the head, until the man next to him began to laugh, and very surely shook his head. 

"Well _that's_ definitely not it," Ian assured, seeming to genuinely find quite a bit of amusement in the other man's assumption. 

Frustrated now, Mickey just gave up, figuring when he had a chance, he would just ask his sister instead. He looked away and put his focus back on his cigarette that was now nearly gone, pulling in a long, deep drag. 

"Whatever then, man," he said.

There was yet another moment of silence, and Ian just kind of gazed at him for a second in thought, like he was thinking something over and considering everything Mickey had said. He didn't look angry anymore, but Mickey wasn't really sure how he appeared, refusing to turn his face and look at him again for fear that might see or feel something that he didn't want to. He finally did look though, when Ian started speaking again.

"I know her, because she helps care for _my_ sister," Ian revealed, causing the other man to meet his eyes at that, "Mandy's a PCA, remember?" he added, "My little sister Debbie is disabled, and she's been her in-home aide for a little over a year. That's how we met," said Ian. 

Mickey was surprised, and not expecting that. Maybe he just assumed it was due to some other reason, because deep down that's what he was hoping for? Like he was searching for a reason to dislike the man, but failed. And Mickey felt like an even bigger jerk, when Ian kept going. 

"She's been like a fucking Godsend, man," Ian breathed, "By far the best personal care attendant my sister has ever had," he continued, "And she's helped _me_ a lot too," Ian added, "Not just with this job, but a lot of stuff," he said vaguely, glancing downward toward his lap, then looked back over and offered Mickey a very small smile.

"So like I said, she's my friend. And she's a really good one too," said Ian.

Mickey didn't know what to say. He kind of wanted to apologize, but specifically for what, he wasn't quite sure. Everything he supposed. But Mickey was still nothing if not stubborn, and simply looked away again. But Ian didn't rub it in, and he didn't nag him for a reply. He just looked away too and let the silence settle again for a minute. 

Then Mickey had an urge to offer something, something small, and unusual of Mickey to do, typically being one to just leave things as they are. Instead though, he turned his face a bit, but didn't make eye contact, and very slowly tried to choose his words correctly. 

"Ya know, you don't have to keep avoiding me, like you have been," Mickey told him slowly, "I might be an asshole, but I'm not some fuckin' mutt on a chain, man," he said, "I'm not gonna bite ya just for gettin' too close."

After the words left his mouth Mickey felt nervous and awkward, suddenly finding the relative silence of the alley almost deafening. He fought the urge to hold his breath as a few seconds passed without Ian replying. Then he chance the smallest glance over at him, seeing his expression had softened some and warmed a little, offering a small acknowledging nod in return. 

"That's good to know," said Ian.

With that things felt a little lighter, like there was more of an understanding between them, no matter how small. And as strange as it was, Mickey felt good about it, glad that he said it, even if didn't know yet what doors those words would later open for him. So he tipped his chin in agreement and turned his face away. 

Then Ian breifly stretched his arms out beside him, making the other man tense for just the slightest instant at the unexpected movement. Though the redhead didn't seem to notice, letting slip a small, pleasurable groan before his stretching ceased. 

"Well, I'm calling it a night," Ian said, then flicked his spent cigarette butt across the alley and moved to rise to his feet, "What about you?" he asked with a glance downward at the man still seated beside him, who simply shook his head. 

"Nah," Mickey replied, "I'm usually here pretty late," he said, "Still got some hours ahead of me." 

The redhead nodded in understanding, then began making steps toward the back door to gather his things and clock out. 

"I guess I'll see you in the morning then?" Ian asked as he grasped the door handle and began to pull it open. 

"Like always," the other man confirmed. The redhead held his smile for another moment, before he stepped back inside. 

"Good night then, Mickey," said Ian. 

The other man offered a final chin tip, then watched him pass through the door, the heavy metal slab closing shut with a clap behind him. 

Maybe Mickey had been too quick to judge Ian? Hell, people are quick to judge Mickey all the time, so he understood how rude and invasive he'd been. But with some things, like family, it was necessary to be and he wasn't going to feel ashamed for that. 

How Ian spoke about his sister though, meant a lot to Mickey, as his sister was also someone that most were quick to judge. But Ian hadn't. And to find out that their friendship was just that, a purely innocent friendship, really made him feel bad, and if the redhead happened to say anything about it to her, Mickey was sure to get an earful from her as well. 

But now, it was really difficult to be mad at Ian, to dislike him and feel annoyed by him, and that in itself annoyed him. Because now when he thought about the redheaded man, that same tickly, fluttery, staticy little buzzing sensation would reappear inside his chest and make extremely uncomfortable all over again. No, Mickey wasn't sure how he felt about the man now, and he didn't like that either. 

His life was complicated enough without including another person in any capacity. So what was the point in telling Ian that he didn't have to stay away? Mickey kind of already thought he was going to regret the decision. But another small, little part of him, hidden away in one of the darkest corners of his head, really, really hoped that just maybe he wouldn't.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contemplation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Currently editing, but I wanted to get this up.  
> No graphic scenes in this one either!  
> However, the next chapter will have one. So, fair warning.  
> As always, I greatly look forward to any feedback you have, so please don't hesitate to share your thoughts! Enjoy.

Ever since their little talk, things between Ian and Mickey seemed to have gone back to normal. And even though Mickey would absolutely never say so out loud, he was actually kind of glad for it.

Now when they happened to run into each other each morning in the alley, there was usually a nod of greeting, and Ian usually offered him a small smile that made that tingly feeling in his chest dance around a little bit. Sometimes that would happen during the work day too, when Ian would stop by the sink to drop off a load of dirtied dishes. The redhead would always pause to make eye contact, if Mickey was willing to turn his head. Then he would flash him that same little smile that made the flutter in his chest tickle his lungs, usually making him cough and look away again.

When the feeling wasn't making him nervous and uncomfortable, it also made him feel kinda good once in a while, like there was a sweet, warm little spot somewhere deep inside that only happen to react when Ian smiled at him. Mickey never once smiled back though, not a single time, simply unable to bring himself to contort his face in such a way without feeling vulnerable and exposed. He wasn't good at showing many emotions, wasn't comfortable with it, especially if he couldn't fully explain them. So by keeping them inside, Mickey didn't have to explain them, just simply tuck them away in an attempt to ignore them, like he did with most everything else. 

Ian had tried a few times to make attempts at small talk again, usually out in the alley during smoke breaks, but Mickey never really offered much back. Honestly though, Mickey just didn't _know_ what to say most of the time, not being good with words and really just not wanting them to come out wrong. That's also why he wasn't much of a talker in general. Mickey had been taught pretty early on that if whatever he wanted to say wasn't important enough, or relevant enough, it was better for him just to keep his mouth shut. So typically, Mickey was just a quiet guy.

Today was Saturday, and instead of working, like he'd prefer to be, Ms. Maggie had insisted he take the day and night off, since she couldn't seem to remember the last time he'd done so. Mickey had protested insistently, and even tried to straight up argue against it, saying that he didn't need or want the time off anyway. But at the end of the day, whatever Ms. Maggie says, is what goes. So Mickey was stuck, and there was really nothing he could do about it.

Mickey mostly lived alone, and typically, being alone was okay for him. But sometimes late at night, especially when the terrors inside his mind just became too much, he'd quietly wish that someone else was there, and that he didn't always have to deal with it all by himself. 

The only companionship he had during those times, _sometimes_ , was his cat Floyd, whom he'd had for about two years now, and was a long-haired, tortoise-shelled, little bastard. He had a big, white spot above his nose that was shaped like an upside down tear drop, and a long, bushy tail that he liked whacking Mickey in the face with. He'd found him all alone in a box as a kitten, crammed behind the dumpster in the alley behind the diner. He'd initially left him there, figuring his meowing would attract someone else, or he might just climb out and be on his way. After two days though, when Floyd was still meowing, and it had then began to rain one particularly chilly evening, Mickey figured it much too cruel to simply leave it to die. So he'd scooped him up out of the box, taken him home, fed him well, and he's been somewhat of a roommate to Mickey ever since. 

Floyd likes to come and go though, and Mickey let's him, leaving his bedroom window cracked each night that led to fire escape, allowing the cat to go out and wonder the streets for as long as he wants. He always came back by morning anyhow. But that's also why it was only _sometimes_ Mickey had the privilege of Floyd's companionship at night, but he didn't blame the cat either. If Mickey could get away from himself, he would too. If Floyd could tell his mood was off though, he'd usually stick around, seeming to know that Mickey may need the comfort of a purr or a nuzzle late at night in the dark when everything else feels hopeless. Besides Mandy, Floyd was one of the few living things in this world that Mickey cared for an extremely great deal, much more than he would ever admit. And he was glad to have him around, even if he was just there to keep him from being alone.

Most of his day today had been nearly mind-numbingly boring, since he didn't really have any kind of set focus to keep him busy. Mickey still tried his best to stay occupied though, having spent his morning cleaning his apartment from top to bottom, since he couldn't remember the last time he'd done that. He finished all his laundry, washed all his dishes, and taken out the trash. Then Mickey was stuck again for a bit after that, before figuring he could use a couple things from the corner store and pulled on his hoodie and shoes to take a quick stroll down the block. 

When he was about halfway there, bouncing his head to a jam in his ears, his song was suddenly interrupted by an incoming call on his cellphone. Mickey groaned as he slowed his feet a little, pulling it out from his pocket to answer. Though his annoyance faded just a tiny bit, when he saw who it was that was calling him. 

"The fuck _you_ want?" Mickey greeted with a heatless smirk. 

"You love it when I call you and you know it, asshole," Mandy smiled back through the phone, "You wouldn't have answered at all if you didn't," she accused lightly. Her brother scoffed and cocked his head as he walked. 

"I could just hang up?" Mickey offered. 

"The fuck you will," laughed Mandy, to which Mickey rolled his eyes. 

"So you gonna tell my why the fuck you're callin'?" he tried again, "'Cause I'm not really in the mood for twenty questions," said Mickey. 

"I just wanna talk," his sister replied simply. But Mickey was skeptical.

"You just wanna talk?" he repeated, "About what?" 

"Whatever you want," Mandy said, her smile still clear within her voice. 

Mickey blinked quizzically for a second, as Mandy's tone just seemed odd, but he wasn't in much mood to attempt to dissect it either. She usually didn't call without a reason though, and if it was to talk, it was usually about something specific. He really wasn't in the mood at the moment though, even if his sister really did call just to call, as unusual at that would be. So instead he just kind of looked ahead as he neared closer to the corner store and mentioned that instead. 

"Well I'm kinda busy right now, Mands," Mickey informed, "Makin' a run down to Zippy's for some shit," he explained. 

"Zippy's Quick Stop Market?" she asked curiously, to which her brother creased his brow. 

"Is there another corner store a block away from my building that I don't know about?" Mickey asked back. 

"You're not at work?" Mandy queried. 

"Obviously not, no," Mickey replied. 

"Why not?" his sister questioned further, but Mickey's brow just creased more deeply the nosier she got. 

"Aye, why the fuck are _you_ askin' the twenty questions now?" Mickey asked instead, but Mandy wasn't fazed by her brother's now irritated tone. 

"I'm just asking," Mandy said, "Fuck, it's not supposed to be an interrogation or anything." 

"Well, you're sure as fuck foolin' me right now on that, Mands," retorted Mickey.

Then there was a few beats of silence where she simply waited, knowing that sometimes, if she held out long enough, her brother may finally offer more. And she was right in believing so this time, because although Mickey let out a long, exacerbated sigh, he did finally respond to her question. 

"Mags insisted that I take the day off," he said, "Even though I didn't fuckin' ask for it," Mickey added, "I don't fuckin' need a day off." 

"Did something happen?" Mandy wondered, to which the man on the other end of the line rolled his eyes again.

"Did something hap- No! Nothin' fuckin' happened, Mandy," her brother spat back incredulously, "She just said she thinks I work too much," he explained, "Like that's a fuckin' crime or somethin'," Mickey mumbled a little lower. He then made a left turn through the tiny entrance of the corner store and began walking down an aisle.

"Well, she's not wrong," Mandy agreed. 

"Fuck you," Mickey scoffed, "I'm fine."

"Everyone needs a break _once in a while_ , Mickey," his sister insisted, but the man disagreed. 

"I don't," he said. 

Mickey then paused after having grabbed a small carton of milk, a loaf of bread, and a handful of slim jims, and was now scanning the chips, pretzels and other salty, crunchy snacks for something else. But just as he reached out to grab a bag of funions, the next question that his sister asked him caught him off guard and made him drop the bag onto the floor.

"So, how are you liking Ian?" Mandy asked. 

Her brother fumbled for the bag as it fell, then quickly bent down to scoop it back up. 

"What?" Mickey blurted, pretending that he hadn't heard her. 

"Ian," she repeated, "How are you liking him so far?" Mandy queried, and that's when it clicked for him. 

"That's what this is about, isn't it?" Mickey accused, "This is why you called," he said, feeling absolutely sure of it. 

"Why can't you ever just answer a question without making it so difficult?" Mandy all but groaned, "Just tell me how you like him," she demanded. But Mickey was stubborn. 

"Who says I like him at all?" asked Mickey. His sister laughed.

"Oh, come on. Ian's a really nice guy," Mandy insisted. 

"Yeah, that's what I keep hearin'," he replied flatly, then arched an eyebrow and asked a question of his own, "How come you've never mentioned him before though?" Mickey wondered, juggling the few items in his hands, now making his way toward the front counter. 

"What do you mean?" Mandy asked back, causing her brother to press his lips together. 

"What part of that question was confusing to you?" he pressed, "How come you've never mentioned him before?" Mickey asked again. 

"When have I ever talked to you about my work?" Mandy wondered herself, "I never have, because you've never given a shit," she said. Mickey couldn't really argue with that too much, but still. 

"Well, maybe I do now," he said, seeming to surprise his sister quite a bit. 

"You're so full of shit," Mandy laughed absurdly.

Mickey pushed a small, frustrated huff through his nose, but didn't say anything. He didn't want to be overly persistent about it and seem weird. But his sister didn't really seem to mind, still sounding quite amused instead. Mickey stayed quiet as he paid for the few food items he'd collected, then grasped the bag they were dropped into, along with his milk in the same hand, and turned to leave the store. Then his sister's voice came through the phone again. 

"Why do you care anyway?" she asked.

"'Cause you hooked him up at Mags," Mickey replied honestly, "You know how fuckin' particular she is," he added, "So you must really have some confidence in this dude, because she'd never fuckin' forgive you if he ended up fucking something up," he said. 

"I know that," Mandy agreed, "And I do," she said, "I have a lot of confidence in Ian," she assured, "He's a really good friend."

Her words sounded so genuine, and true, like she really meant what she said. Mickey wanted to believe her, but he has a very long history of being proven wrong just when he thought he had things figured out. He figured it would take time, that he doesn't know Ian yet, not even sure if he _wants_ to know Ian yet, honestly thinking it might just be best to keep him at a distance for now, just like he did most everyone else. But Mickey still couldn't help being curious about him, just a little bit.

"Then how come you've never talked about him?" he tried once more, and this time Mandy sighed before she finally answered him. 

"Courtesy, privacy, respect, that kinda thing," she said, to which her brother's brow creased. 

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?" Mickey wondered, as his face contorted for a moment in thought. 

"I met him through my job," Mandy explained, "I help take care of his nineteen year old physically and mentally disabled sister. And there is a level of professionalism I have to maintain surrounding that kinda relationship," she continued, "Because Ian may not be my client, but he is just as involved with my work there with her, as I am," Mandy said, "I don't want to violate his privacy or hers, or at worst jeaprodize my career that I've worked very hard for, by sharing the wrong shit with other people." 

"Other people," Mickey scoffed. 

"No, don't fucking do that," Mandy countered, "You know what I mean," she said, then sighed again heavily before she continued, "And like I said before, it's not like you've ever really cared anyway, Mickey," Mandy added with another laugh, "You wanna know about my life? Ask me once in a while."

It didn't happen often, but Mandy had kind of made Mickey feel a little guilty at that, a little bit ashamed. Even though they did keep in contact rather often, texting, chatting, even the ocassional visits, they never really _talked_ much, at least not about personal things. They really just screw around and shoot shit, mostly, and Mickey had never really thought too deeply past it. Maybe he was starting to shut the world out a little _too_ much, since he clearly hadn't noticed how much his relationship with his sister was emotionally lacking in this way. And it bothered Mickey, it did. He honestly wanted to correct it too, if he could. 

"Sorry," Mickey offered quietly, but Mandy never seemed to hold a grudge. 

"It's okay," she said, "The important shit that you need to know about Ian though, is that I trust him," Mandy told him surely, "A lot," she emphasized, "So you don't have to worry about him fucking anything up down there," said Mandy, "I promise." 

"Well good," Mickey accepted, albeit a bit reluctantly, because old habits are hard to break. Then he smirked in thought for a second. "Because I'd hate to have to lay him out in front of a bunch of customers for doin' somethin' stupid," he quipped with a chuckle, but Mandy laughed a bit too. 

"I dunno, Mickey," his sister teased, "Have you actually taken a look at the guy?" Mandy asked, "He definitely takes care of himself," she complimented, a wide, appealing smile clear within her voice, and she laughed again, "He might just give you a run for your money." 

"I'd like to see him try," Mickey challenged easily, now approaching his building and nearing the front door to step back inside.

"Just take it easy on him, okay?" Mandy requested lightly, "He's got a lot of shit on his plate right now and he's just trying his best to get through it," she said, "And he really fucking needs that job, Mickey. So please don't make it hard on him." 

"I really don't give a single shit about the guy, Mandy," Mickey informed slowly, insistently, trying to tell her that he had absolutely no interest in bothering Ian at all, and really just hopes that the other man won't bother him either, "If he ends up stayin' at Mags, is up to him," he said, "I don't got nothin' to do with that."

"Good," Mandy replied, "Thank you," she said, to which her brother merely grunted in acknowledgement as he made his way up the stairs toward his apartment. Then Mandy spoke again, and he almost tripped right over his feet. 

"You know, I bet the two of you would really get along if you just gave him a chance," Mandy said, "I mean, when was the last time you had a fucking friend?" she wondered. 

"I don't need any fuckin' friends," Mickey replied, hoping that he didn't sound nearly as defensive as he felt about that accusation. 

"Oh, come on, Mickey," Mandy pushed lightly, "You might really like him."

"Highly doubtful," her brother predicted flatly, and he could almost hear the woman through the phone roll her eyes around to the back of her head. 

"Fine," Mandy said, "You go ahead and keep enjoying your own company then," she directed with annoyance, "You already seem to love it so fucking much anyway." 

"Maybe I do," he lied. 

"Good then," said Mandy. 

Mickey unlocked the door to his apartment, dropping the keys into a little dish on a table beside the door, pausing to peer down at Floyd who'd bounded right over to nuzzle his body though Mickey's ankles. The man reached down to scratch his head as he nudged the door closed with his hip, then walked out to his kitchen to deposit his groceries. 

"Well, I'm headed down to Mags for lunch today," Mandy revealed, "I was hoping to see you down there, but at least Ian's working, right?" she smiled through the phone. Her brother turned around to put his milk away inside his fridge, then shrugged to himself. 

"Fuck if I know," replied Mickey.

"Okay, well we should still get together soon," Mandy insisted, "I'll swing back by the diner for coffee or something during the week," she offered, to which her brother shrugged again. 

"Whatever," he said. 

"I'll see you then, Mick," Mandy replied easily, "Bye."

Mickey peered down at his phone, watching as the call ended, and the light of his screen faded into blackness, then he set it down on the counter beside him. And now it was quiet, and he was alone again, like he always was.

He then decided to make himself lunch, opting for a bologna sandwich with a large side of funions, and tried his best not to think too much about everything his sister had said to him over the phone just a short bit ago.

It's not that Mickey never thought of trying to have friends, or that he'd never had them before at all, he was just very cautious of forming new friendships, though he wasn't entirely sure why. It just made him nervous really, uncomfortable, almost scared in a way and he didn't like that that feeling. It just feels too vulnerable to allow himself to comfortable with another person in such a familiar way, let alone anything more serious. Mickey just wasn't sure he was ready for anything like that, even if being alone was really starting to get to him deep down inside. 

He supposed Ian didn't seem like a bad person, not really, especially after everything that Mandy had said. But the man himself just made him anxious for some reason, a different kind of nervous entirely. And that strange fluttery, little speckle of a tickle that he gets inside his chest when he happens to look at the redhead just a bit too long, or when Ian flashes him a particularly handsome smile. That was _really_ nerve wracking especially. 

Mickey still didn't know what it meant, why it was there, or if it was even normal for it to happen so much, if there was something wrong with him. It felt good though, sometimes. And that was enough not to hide from it completely, even if he wasn't quite sure how he should react to it at all. What if it happens again though? He knew it would. But what if it gets stronger? What if it changes in another way entirely? There were too many questions for him, and the longer Mickey thought about it, the more his head started to hurt, which frustrated him too. 

He just really wasn't sure what to do about anything at the moment. But Mickey just tried his best to put his mind elsewhere, because thinking on Ian had simply become too much right now. He needed to put his head somewhere else, and keep it there for the rest of the day. 

But it was the daytime that was easy for Mickey, and the later the day became, the more he would fidget, the more he would stress, and the more anxious he became. Because Mickey knew what was coming, what always came for him in the night, the recollections being so much more vivid lately, much to his despair. 

And it was times likes these that Mickey would seriously consider just taking the risk, and trying, just _trying_ to make some kind of a connection with another person. Someone he could find a bit of comfort and support in, a bit of grounding when nothing else seemed to help. If he could just find someone like that, the risk would most definitely be worth the reward in the end... right?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know it's been a while.  
> But I have something for you today!  
> **TRIGGER WARNING**  
> There is a very graphic scene included in this chapter, much like the first graphic scene of this fic, along with some brief mentions of suicidal thoughts. Just a heads up.  
> Still editing this, but wanted to get it up.  
> Please don't hesitate to share your thoughts!  
> Thank you for reading!

It was the middle of the week, nearing the end of the night, and Mickey was just finishing up his last load of dishes before clocking out to head home. He thought about just staying overnight, but then by the time he'd clock back in tomorrow afternoon, his dish load would probably be pretty high. So to save himself the extra trouble, he figured it best to just finish up what he had in front of him, and come back in the morning like usual.

Ian had stayed later today too, even telling Julia that she could leave early if she wanted, that he had it covered until Vicky, their third shift waitress, showed up later on. So she did, quite happily and left right before the dinner rush began. 

At first Mickey thought that Ian was in over his head, because even during the middle of the week, supper time at Mags was _busy_. Even Julia sometimes struggled to keep up, which was the whole reason that the redhead was hired in the first place. Ian had proved him wrong rather quickly though, and didn't seem to have much trouble adjusting at all. He was still quick, efficient, cool tempered, level headed, and could multitask his ass off. And Mickey was pretty damn impressed by him tonight, to say the least.

Then Vicky finally showed up to work, just as Mickey was drying off his hands, and he offered her a quick, chin tip in greeting. Vicky was a middle aged woman with thick, frizzy hair, five ungrateful kids at home, and used to frequent the area as a very popular lady of the night, before she started waitressing at Mags. She was good people though, and she didn't take any shit, which was why Ms. Maggie liked that Vicky preferred to work the night shift, knowing that clientele during that time was a bit different than the daytime crowd. People seemed to think they could get away with more, even ocassionally trying to rob the place in the wee hours of the night when the diner was mostly empty. But with a pair like Nino and Vicky holding things down, they've never lost a single penny yet, and that alone says a lot. 

Mickey walked back into the little staff locker area, then began taking off his apron and work shirt to put his own shirt back on and collect his other things. Just as he was pulling his shirt over his head to pull down along his beater, Ian suddenly appeared, stepping into the locker area beside him to do the very same thing. And when he did, Mickey was grateful that their lockers were opposite each other, and could continue to dress without making any eye contact. Then the redhead sighed heavily, causing the other man to jump at the sound. 

"Today was such a long ass day," Ian breathed, "I dunno how you do it," he said, speaking to Mickey while their backs remained facing each other. The other man shrugged as he adjusted his shirt and began to grasp his backpack from his locker. 

"I'm just used to the shit, I guess," Mickey replied, "You keep at it and you'll get used to it too," he said, then shut his locker as he swung his pack over a single shoulder.

Then when he turned to leave the locker area, Mickey happened to glance at him, his eyes suddenly pausing on the sight of the other man beside him. Ian had pulled off his shirt, revealing a beater underneath that looked hot, sweaty, and clung to his skin like another layer of flesh. He probably should have been disgusted, but deep down inside he wasn't, not even a little bit. The other man's shirt was so damp, he could see right through the fabric, noticing the faintest hint of freckles that scattered down along his back. And his muscles, they looked hard, firm and bulky, silently wondering how they might feel beneath his palms if he were to reach over and touch him for just a second. 

But then such thoughts began to make Mickey uncomfortable again, like he was wrong for thinking such things, wrong for looking as long as he had, and it made his stomach twist almost painfully. It forced him to look away, just as Ian was pulling a fresh t-shirt over his head, and he tried his best to step around him within the tiny space, not sure how his body or mind might react if he accidentally touches him. He just tried to be friendly as he departed, hoping that he didn't appear to be rushing away from the redhead as quickly as he felt he was. 

"I'll see ya later, man," Mickey said, "I gotta go catch the L." 

But at that Ian's head suddenly whipped around to look at him, following him as he began walking toward the back door and arched a single eyebrow. 

"You ride the L every night after work?" Ian wondered, causing Mickey to pause his steps, meet his eyes and give a slow, confused nod. 

"Yeah," Mickey replied, to which Ian smiled quite happily. 

"So do I," Ian informed him, to which the other man swallowed nervously at the discovery. 

"No shit?" Mickey asked, earning him another nod. 

"Yeah," Ian said, "I usually ride it down here in the mornings too," he added, then tilted his head a little, "Well, if I don't take my morning run down here instead." 

"You take runs first thing in the fuckin' morning?" Mickey queried incredulously, "I can barely make it down my fuckin' stairs," he said, to which Ian laughed much more handsomely than Mickey probably should have thought he did.

"It's a great way to get the blood flowing," Ian grinned, "Like, the perfect pick me up," he said, pulling his own backpack out from his locker and pushing the little metal door closed with a clap. 

"I think I'll just stick to my coffee," said Mickey, "But whatever fuckin' works for ya, man," he shrugged, then turned around again in an attempt to leave the diner. But Ian kept talking. 

"Hey, uh," Ian called, halting Mickey's footsteps once more and causing him to very hesitantly, turn back around, "Since we're both going the same way," he began to offer, and the other man just tried to ignore the way his heart suddenly began pounding much harder than before, "Would you mind if I walked with you?" Ian asked.

At first, Mickey tried to think of every single possible excuse that he could to say no. Even though he couldn't seem to settle on a way that didn't sound rude, he still almost immediately turned him down. But his sister's words still nagged at the back of his mind and he hesitated. _Give him a chance,_ he could hear her saying, _When was the last time you had a fucking friend?_ Mickey thought maybe this little walk could be a trial run, knowing that the entire trip including the train ride was only about twenty minutes, and that could be bearable even if it went south. And just going for a little walk with the guy couldn't really hurt, right? So he chewed his lip and blinked, figuring he ought to just bite the bullet. 

"I don't give a shit," Mickey replied. 

At that Ian seemed to almost light up, his smile spreading wide, but then seemed to restrain himself some, like he didn't want to appear too excited about Mickey's response and maybe end up spooking him. 

"Cool," Ian said, then made steps to move beside Mickey, and together they punched out on their time cards and stepped out into the alley.

They strode together in silence for a bit, each lighting a cigarette and quietly smoking it while they made their way to the street. And the entire time Mickey was nervous, just hoping that it didn't show, that the redhead wouldn't notice his awkwardness as he stayed in step beside him. 

Even though Mickey wasn't much of a talker, he kept trying to think of something to say, anything really, figuring it might distract the other man from his discomfort. But he couldn't think of anything, a comment or a question, nothing. His nerves were getting the better of him, yet he could tell that Ian wanted him to speak, seemed to hope he would. He'd ocassionally glance over, his gaze open and almost questioning for a just a second, like he was waiting for Mickey to finally say something. So Mickey just bit the bullet once more, and went with the first thing off the top of his head. 

"I don't think I've ever seen you on the mornin' train before," Mickey mentioned suddenly, causing the redhead to look back over again, and smile just a little bit. 

"Yeah, I'm not sure if I've ever seen you on there either," Ian agreed, "Guess I'll have to take a better look around next time," he said. 

"You go very far?" Mickey wondered, to which the other man shrugged. 

"Just into Canaryville," replied Ian, "So no, not really." 

That surprised Mickey for some reason that Ian was from his old neighborhood, the same one he'd so desperately tried to escape, and finally had after years of thinking he'd never be able to. He wondered if Ian had always lived there, and all this time they'd only been perhaps a few blocks apart. They might have even gone to the same school at some point, and the realization was a little boggling to him. He looked back over and arched his brow. 

"Which block?" he asked, causing the redhead to arch his brow as well. 

"North Wallace," Ian said, "Why?" 

"I grew up on Trumbull," Mickey replied, to which Ian gave a nod. 

"I know," Ian said, "Mandy told me." 

Mickey just grunted at that, because of course she did. Now he felt his first real attempt at conversation with the other man had been spoiled by his sister. Even though he knew that it obviously wasn't intentional, it still annoyed him, and he couldn't help but voice it as he scoffed.

"Mandy, huh?" Mickey said as he sucked in a drag of smoke, "What else she fuckin' tell you?" he asked.

"About you, or in general?" Ian asked back with a grin.

The question made Mickey nervous all over again, but in a completely different way than before. _Had_ Mandy spoken about him to Ian? And if she had, what the fuck could she possibly have said? It was obvious that Ian had been aware of him in some sense, considering he knew Mickey by name his very first day working in the diner. His sister wasn't usually one to spread around someone else's business. But if Ian and Mandy were as good of friends as they seemed to be, they've probably done their fair share of gossiping as well. His brow creased deep as he blinked at him, then scratched the bridge of his nose with the back of his thumb. 

"You sayin' my sister talks about me?" Mickey pressed a little further, but the other man didn't back down from the question, and merely held his grin. 

"Oh, all the time," the redhead confirmed proudly, almost too proudly, and Mickey was now starting to wonder if maybe Ian was mocking him. Then the man laughed, and shook his head. 

"I'm just fucking with you," Ian assured with a loose wave of his palm, "No, not really," he replied instead, "I mean, in passing a couple times. But that's about it," he shrugged. 

The tension in Mickey's neck and shoulders dispersed a little bit, smoothing back out, and his nerves calmed down again. He knew his sister better than that, and he also knew that Ian was just trying to be friendly, and easygoing. But Mickey just wasn't used to that kind of thing, making him feel stupid and awkward as fuck when he doesn't catch on to it right away. It was the same this time too, so instead he just looked away. 

"Well, good," Mickey replied, "Really ain't shit worth wantin' to know about me anyway," he said, then sucked in a long deep drag of smoke and blew it out in front of him.

Ian peered over at him silently for a short moment in thought, taking a drag of his own cigarette and exhaling slowly. Mickey refused to look back though, trying his best to ignore the other man's gaze and was relieved when he finally turned his face away. But then Ian shrugged a shoulder and gave his head the slightest tilt. 

"I wouldn't necessarily say that," he replied quietly. 

His response made Mickey's brow scrunch stubbornly, sucking in another thick drag of smoke, then blowing it out as he turned his head to speak again and flicked his spent cigarette butt away. 

"How the fuck would you know?" Mickey scoffed bluntly, not sure at all how to take the other man's reply, and kind of hoping he would take it back. But he didn't, simply shrugging again as he shot Mickey another calm, casual glance. 

"Just a guess," said Ian. 

The other man pushed a small exhale through his nose and looked away, feeling a little defeated for not knowing what else to say to that. He really didn't know what the fuck Ian meant, or why he said what he did, but it bothered him for some reason. Maybe it was because Mickey wasn't used to others being friendly, exactly, or showing any kind of interest in him. At least other men never did that with Mickey, not since he'd recieved the worst kind of interest from a sadistic predator all those years ago. It was strange, and unusual for Mickey, and it just didn't make sense to him as to why. And now that it seems to be happening, for whatever the reason, Mickey just could help but wonder, to what end? Why did Ian care? 

They walked beside each other in silence all the way to the L, and waited around for a few minutes for their train to come. Mickey stood in wait beside the track, once again ignoring the tall redheaded man just an arm's reach away, resisting the urge as best he could to pull out his earphones and turn his music on. It seemed rude even if they weren't speaking though, and he was trying to get better at that. So Mickey gnawed on the inside of his cheek and stood there, bored out of his mind. 

And even though he probably wasn't trying to be, Ian was once again, distracting as all fuck. He had his hands stuffed inside his pockets, and stood sort of rolling from the heels of his feet up onto his toes and back again. He also kept glancing back over at Mickey every once in a while, kind of looking like he wanted to make another attempt at conversation, but wasn't for some reason. Again, Mickey just refused to look back over at him, instead choosing to peer blankly down the track in the opposite direction for the incoming train to arrive.

When it finally did, both men along with other lingering commuters quickly approached the track as the train slowed to a halt and it's doors slid open. People shuffled past each other in and out of the train, with the emptying seats almost immediately filling back up. Even for a late hour, the L seemed a little crowded, and once Mickey had sat down beside a window, his redhead co-worker seemed to instinctively move to take a seat beside him. 

The dark haired man swallowed nervously when Ian's leg brushed against his own as he sat. Mickey quickly adjusted in his place to ensure no further physical contact could occur between them, even in such a tight space. The redhead didn't seem to notice any of it though, thankfully, and Mickey simply sat there awkwardly chewing his lip and staring out the window. After a few moments, the train then shut it's doors and slowly pulled away from the platform. 

Then he flickered just the smallest glance over at the man beside him, seeing his demeanor to be somewhat the same, like he was trying not to look at Mickey, yet still glancing over as well. He kind of just fiddled his thumbs and tapped the tips his toes around on the floor, like he wasn't sure what to say, or if it better to just quietly sit through the ride. 

Mickey watched him a moment, then figured in an attempt to not make this experience awkward as all hell, he should probably try and think of something to say, anything really. He thought on it for a second, then recalling their earlier conversation on their way to the L, Mickey suddenly had a question for him. He thumbed his lip, then tipped his chin. 

"So, you always ride the L in the mornin' too?" Mickey asked. Ian turned his head, gave a blink and shrugged. 

"Most mornings, yeah," he replied. The other man raised his eyebrow a bit. 

"Then how come you were showin' up to work like ten, fifteen minutes later than I was for a whole week?" Mickey wondered curiously, then scoffed a little humorously, "You just wonderin' the block or some shit to avoid me?" he asked. 

Ian was silent for a second, almost looking a little embarrassed, like he'd been called out on something he thought had gone unnoticed. Then after a short few seconds he shrugged again.

"Well no, not exactly," Ian said, then upturned a palm, "I mean, I _was_ trying to give you a little space, yeah," he continued, then chuckled a bit, "But I wasn't wondering the block," Ian explained with a head shake, "That whole week I ran to work, and it just takes me a little longer on foot." 

Mickey's brow crinkled deeply between his eyes, and he stared at the other man for a brief moment like he didn't make sense. 

"Seriously now, you did what?" Mickey queried with confusion, causing the redhead to suddenly appear a little confused as well. 

"Ran to work?" Ian offered slowly, seemingly unsure of which part seemed to bewilder the other man so much. The dark haired man tilted his head as his brow creased even further. 

"Why the fuck would you do that for a whole week?" Mickey asked, "I ain't that fuckin' bad, man," he insisted, trying not to suddenly sound like an oversentitive pussy, "You coulda just kept takin' the fuckin' L," he said. 

Then it was Ian's brow that crinkled, just before he shook his head just slightly and began to laugh. To which the dark haired man just tried not to feel even further offended that Ian found his words humorous at all. But then he became confused once again when the redhead finally responded to him. 

"No, no, I run for exercise mostly, like I mentioned before," Ian explained suddenly, "And well, for enjoyment, I guess. For fun," he shrugged again, "I go for runs almost every day anyway. So I didn't really mind going for another." The other man was still perplexed, and blinked at him. 

"You run for _fun?_ " Mickey repeated in disbelief, "What the fuck is fun about that shit?" he questioned further, "I don't fuckin' run unless someone shows up with a badge, or they're shootin' at me," he said. 

The redhead's eyes widened at his words, just before he closed them with another sudden burst of laughter that caused him to tip his head back and clutch his chest with a palm. And again, Mickey really wasn't sure if he should take offense. But he kind of wanted to, considering another slight, tingly, tickly feeling suddenly floated up from his chest and clogged thick inside his throat, as he watched the freckles around Ian's eyes scrunch together while he smiled with amusement. It made him nervous and uncomfortable, and at that Mickey swallowed again, looked away a little more, and willed that sensation to fizzle away and disappear again as best as he could manage. Then Ian turned his face back toward him and began to speak again. 

"Lots of people enjoy getting exercise," Ian replied, "And there's lots of different ways to do it," he said, "Running is just one form I enjoy," he smiled then laughed again, "As long as someone isn't shooting at me, of course," Ian added, "Because that definitely takes the fun right out of it."

Mickey blinked at him again, but didn't laugh at his joke, or even crack a smirk. He felt it was another attempt at the other man forming familiarity, and Mickey still just wasn't comfortable with that. And especially having grown up in the same neighborhood, Mickey just thought it was weird that anyone would go for a run when not under threat of arrest, assault or death. What a stupid, unnecessary hobby, he thought. Mickey then turned his face away once more to peer vaguely out the window.

Then Ian's humor ceased as he turned his face back to the man beside him, seeing that he'd looked away and gone quiet once more. He sort of fiddled with his thumbs again for a second, glancing down at his lap momentarily, then looked back over. 

"What kinda stuff do _you_ like to do for fun?" he asked. 

Mickey's brow raised at the question, and he turned his face back, a little surprised that the redhead still wanted to talk to him. But the question was slightly off-putting as well, because he didn't really have an answer for it. So he just shrugged a bit and shook his head. 

"I don't," Mickey said.

Ian's face scrunched curiously, then twisted a bit in thought at his answer, just before he let out a small chuckle. 

"You don't do what?" Ian asked. 

"Stuff for fun," Mickey clarified, to which the other man just appeared a little perplexed and chuckled again.

"Nothing?" the redhead wondered, "You never do anything for no other reason than the raw and pure enjoyment of it?" Ian asked.

The dark haired man stayed quiet for a moment and thought about the question, trying to ignore the inkling of discomfort it gave him. But Mickey honestly couldn't think of anything like that at all, at least not anymore. Most days in recent years, hell for most of his life really, any time his mind was left to itself for too long, he wasn't exactly focused on anything other than distracting it, lest it return to some awful, horrible time from earlier years like it always did. So he just shook his head again and kind of peered down ahead, away from Ian so he wouldn't have to look at him when he spoke. 

"Nope," said Mickey.

Then it was Ian who paused in thought, and while Mickey did his best not to make any eye contact, the redhead just silently peered over at him with an expression that almost looked pitying. The dark haired man kept ignoring the gaze and stayed quiet, until the man beside him spoke again. 

"Maybe you should change that," Ian suggested quietly, but left it just at that. 

Mickey met his gaze for only a second when the words left his mouth, just before he looked away, turning his head more completely to gaze idolently back out the window.

He really didn't know what to say to that, so Mickey just didn't say anything at all. He thought it was a strange suggestion, really. What did Ian care if Mickey ever had any fun or not? Why was fun necessary anyway? Isn't simple existence enough to get by? Mickey figured so, and didn't really see much point in filling up his time with such seemingly unimportant things. That's just the way he was. 

As he settled back into silence, Ian seemed to keep mildly fidgeting beside him, like he was still trying to think of more to say. Mickey just focused on ignoring him now though, figuring they've spoken enough for today, and the next five minutes of his train ride would pass quickly. It did too, thankfully, and they slowed to halt at the last stop the L would make just before passing back through his old neighborhood. 

Then Mickey began to stand to depart, to which Ian noticed, then shifted his long legs and backpack over within his seat to let him pass. The redhead's motions jumbled a bit as he made room for him. Then he blurted out a quick few words before Mickey could slip an earbud inside his ear and leave completely. 

"So, maybe I'll catch you on here in the morning?" Ian offered, to which the other man hesitated a second, then shrugged. 

"Yeah, maybe," Mickey agreed, then briefly chewed his lip as he tried not to pause too much or too awkwardly in his steps, "See ya later, man," he said. 

"Yeah, okay," Ian replied, "See ya," he then smiled with a chin tip. 

The dark haired man then shoved his other little speaker inside his ear, turned his music up, and moved to exit the L without a single glance back.

Mickey kept his music loud inside his ears the entire walk back to his apartment, hoping it's deafening, rhythmic blare would muffle the anxiety he always began to feel the closer he got. Not to mention the distracting nag of thoughts and questions Ian had left him with. Mickey didn't want to think about anything at all really, and just wanted the day to be over, as much as he dreaded how it almost always ended. 

He got to his apartment building, made his way up 4 flights of stairs and unlocked the door of his unit. It's quiet inside, and black, feeling almost menacing as he stepped through the threshold, like a hole boring down into an endless, bottomless pit. Mickey just hoped he'd be able to claw his way back out of it in the morning even just a little unscathed, that maybe he'd have a break and get some rest, for once. He breathed in deep, exhaled through his nose and closed the door behind him as he reached over to flick on the light.

Like always, the second he stepped inside Floyd quickly bolted over to meet him, this time even jumping up onto Mickey's chest, forcing the man to drop his keys and catch him. The fuzzy ball of fluff nuzzled into him, rolled over within Mickey's arms affectionately, just before he smacked him in the face with his giant feather duster of a tail and jumped back down to the floor. 

"Well hello to you too, asshole," Mickey said with a little smirk, then bent to grasp his keys and place them in the little dish beside his door. 

Floyd crawled back into his usual spot disappearing under the couch, and the deafening weight of the silence around him nagged at Mickey while he toed off his shoes and pulled off his sweatshirt. He exhaled as he looked back up, scanning the empty apartment for a second, then walked further inside. 

Mickey was instantly bored, like always. He flipped on his television, which mostly just became background noise, plugged his phone into charge, and debated finding a snack. But there was nothing on tv to watch anyway, so the snack seemed a little pointless. Then he thought maybe a video game would occupy him? Mickey hasn't been able to play those much lately however, not for months really, seemingly unable to focus for long enough to find much enjoyment in it. 

The same went for Mickey's bookshelf as well, because believe it or not, Mickey deeply enjoyed reading a good novel. At least he used to. It was something he discovered as a teenager weirdly enough, probably because it provided a wonderful escape from the horrors of his real life. But lately, just like with so many other things, Mickey just couldn't focus on anything much other than work. His mind was distracted more than usual, but he still wasn't sure why, and he still didn't know how to deal with it.

Ian's words about 'fun' replayed once more in his head, and they only frustrated him more. That kind of thing just wasn't so easy for everyone else, and he found it a bit presumptuous for the redhead to assume that it was, like he just hadn't tried hard enough. Mickey had done nothing but try for a really long time, then finally gave up when the effort simply began to seem futile. Maybe that kind of thing like fun, enjoyment, happiness, just wasn't meant for him. 

The rest of his time awake faded away much too quickly for Mickey's liking. It always did, and before he knew it, as he stared blankly at an infomercial on his tv screen, he suddenly yawned. The dread came back with a force, causing him to shake his head and rub roughly at his eyes. 

Mickey glanced toward the narrow little hallway that led to his bedroom and he cringed. The dreams had been awful lately, not that it was out of the ordinary. But lately his subconscious has been digging back up many of the earlier memories, the ones near the beginning when he was just a little kid. And for some reason, many of those felt worse to experience again, than many of the much more brutal encounters he was forced to endure during his older years. Maybe it was because his innocence had been stolen from him, what little of he'd been left with after his mother died? And that hurt, tremendously, even if he'd never say it out loud. 

He hated his mind for torturing him with these memories that he'd wanted so desperately to leave behind, and in turn that made him hate himself too. There must be something wrong with him for his brain to keep reliving these things like a film reel stuck on a loop. This wasn't normal, and Mickey didn't need any confirmation from anyone to know that. But what could he do? 

Mickey exhaled again more heavily as he let his palm run down over his face, and he clamped his eyes shut for just a moment trying to prepare himself. He then dropped his palm into his lap, and rose from his spot as he turned off his television, making a small clicking sound with his cheek while he did to see if Floyd might want to come with him. The fluffy little fur ball apparently did, and immediately came out from under the couch where he'd stayed since Mickey had come home, and followed his master into the bedroom. And silently, Mickey was grateful for it. 

He stripped down to his boxers and beater, then stiffly crawled under his sheets while Floyd settled into a ball near the end of the bed between Mickey's ankles. The dark haired man exhaled again as he laid down fully and stared up into the darkness of his ceiling, tracing the subtle outline of streetlight that trickled in his window from the street just below. Then he yawned again, and the action made him shudder grotesquely, not wanting to think about what was to come, what had already been, what he just wished he could forget about completely. But knowing he had no control, Mickey managed a deep breath as he closed his eyes, scooting his ankles just a little closer together around Floyd for the slightest bit of comfort, and let himself fall asleep. 

The dreams, the nightmares, always came back so vividly each time, like he were actually there all over again, reliving things like the first time they'd happened. Even though he knew what was to come each time, he still always felt that same unknowing dread, that very same fear and betrayal and confusion that he had all those years ago when he'd experienced it all first hand. Mickey could hear everything so clearly, smell, taste, see everything so fucking clearly, that each morning, for just a single split second, he felt just like that very same frightened little kid he used to be, and reality would have to settle back in around him. 

And just like now when he forced to go back, when his mind tormented him with endless stream of violations he'd endured in the past, and that'd opened such awful, agonizing wounds, leaving ugly, hardening scars in their wake, Mickey was still that same little boy he was before. He was defenseless, vulnerable, alone, and scared. And he knew he couldn't save himself, wondering if anyone else ever would. 

After that first experience with Peter, nothing had happened again to Mickey for a few months, unable to recall how many exactly. But unlike that first time when Mickey had faked being asleep, the second time that Peter had snuck into his room and had done what he did, he really had been. So when he was suddenly awoken late one night by the grasp of a hand on the side of his head, a gentle, shushing coo from just above him, mingled with the stench of sweat and beer in his face, just as a thick, hard, fleshy object pushed inside his mouth, Mickey was alarmed to say the least.

He'd suddenly coughed, but it muffled as his hands flayeled out from under his covers in an attempt to push the man away from him. But Peter had simply grabbed him by both wrists, grasping them tightly and firmly within a single palm of his, then continued to soothe over the side of Mickey's head with his thumb as he shushed him again, quietly and gently beginning to thrust his cock between his lips. 

"Just relax boy," Peter whispered, "This doesn't have to hurt," he said. 

Mickey's hands struggled weakly within Peter's palm, and when he tried to move his head back the man simply pressed it down more firmly to hold it into place. Then he thrusted a little deeper and began to quietly moan as he peered down at what he was doing to the boy. Peter caressed the pad of his thumb tenderly over Mickey's temple, and contrary to the first time, his movements were noticeably gentler than before. Not that they were any less violating, humiliating and repulsing because of it. But after a few moments, Mickey just stopped struggling and let Peter continue what he was doing thinking that if he just complied, it would all be over quicker. Then the man's breath shook just slightly between moans, and Peter began to speak to him a little more as he slid his cock back and forth over Mickey's tongue. 

"Now you just gotta suck a little bit," Peter whispered breathily, "You can do that," he urged with another caressing rub of the boy's scalp, "Suck on it just like a lollipop," Peter grinned grossly, licking his lips and speeding up his movement just a bit, "The harder, the better," he groaned out deeply, pushing the head of his cock a little further inside the boy's mouth. 

Mickey watched him through watered eyes that threatened to spill, and didn't react, didn't comply, too disgusted and confused as to why this was happening at all. His senses were being smothered with the reek of alcohol wafting off of him, the rough, callused grip of Peter's hand pressing down on his head, and the salty, uncomfortable stretch that was filling up his mouth. Mickey felt hopeless. Then just as he closed his eyelids and began to cry, the man above him seemed to almost snap at the fact that his direction was being ignored, and suddenly let go of Mickey's hand to wrap one of his own firm around his neck, squeezing tight. 

"I said fuckin' suck, bitch," Peter sneered through a slur, choking the boy for just an instant, and curled his other fist tightly within his hair, "Or I'll _make_ it hurt again," he warned.

Out of fear and an almost instantly desperate need for air, the little boy relented and did as he was told, continuing to cry as he did. But Peter was instantly pleased, moaning very pleasurably at the new sensation of suction on his cock, and loosened both grips to soothe them over Mickey again as he thrusted into his mouth with a sigh. 

"That's a good boy," Peter whispered, then moaned again and sped up a little more, "Very good boy," he breathed, and tipped his head back a bit, "Just like a big, fat lollipop," he said with a smile, then chuckled to himself. 

Then Peter sighed again as he looked down to watch Mickey cry some more as he fucked into his face, continuing to smile down at him with pleasure. The man then pushed his cock in more deeply on purpose, seemingly to enjoy the way Mickey's body lurched when he gagged. Peter hummed through his nose with a bite of his lip, and grinned drunkenly down at the boy once more. 

"Yeah, it's big alright," Peter chuckled, then did it again to watch him gag once more, "But you can take it," he said surely. He then trailed his eyes down over the boy's body beneath his blanket with a disturbing look of thought, and whispered to himself, "Take it real good too." 

Mickey was terrified, probably even more than before, and just closed his eyes again, willing to keep them closed until Peter was gone, still silently hoping this would all finally be over soon. And unfortunately, yet also strangely thankfully, Peter then seemed to get a little carried away just as before and his movements just suddenly turned much harder, rougher, much more relentless. His pace quickened exceptionally, his moans got even louder, though still muffled by the party and music from just beyond the little boy's bedroom, and he held Mickey's head in place as he ruthlessly began fucking his mouth with absolutely no care to the boy attached to it.

The man placed one large, sweaty palm across Mickey's forehead, and his other beneath his jaw, firmly wrapping around it from ear to ear, then leaned his weight into his motions in much the same way he had the first time he'd violated him. The boy was almost instantly suffocated as Peter plunged the shaft of his cock as deeply as he could manage, groaning as he fucked selfishly into his throat and watched the little boy struggle helplessly beneath him. 

As much as Mickey's brain attempted to disassociate, it couldn't under this type of fear, replaced by the primal instict to struggle and fight, to breathe, no matter how impossible it seemed. He scratched at the hands that remained clamped around his head, and kicked his legs violently, flinging his sheet right off his body. But the fight didn't last long, as he heard Peter chuckle, then pushed out a long, croaking groan of pleasure, and that same hot, sticky, sour burst of fluid suddenly filled up his mouth and pushed it's way down his throat. 

He instantly gagged, then coughed, feeling his throat clench around the thick, throbbing pulse of Peter's cock. It made him cough again, sending hot, painful stinging trails of cum out of his nose, which the man above him noticed, and merely let go of his forehead to plug it for him with his fingers. Mickey gagged even more, painfully heaving through his guts as Peter sighed through his final few thrusts, and finally pulled out from his mouth. 

Then just as before the little boy gasped hard, sucking air into his lungs as deeply and as quickly as he could, still crying and confused, and his entire head still pounded with a residual pain from the assault. Mickey's hands trembled as he tried to wipe the tears from his face, and the burning stream of cum still oozing from his nostrils. But he was too afraid and ashamed to look up at the man who still stood beside his bed and was now zipping his pants back up, just keeping his face dipped down low and away from him. 

He just wanted Peter to leave like before, not stay to watch him cry the way he was now. But instead Peter still stayed for a moment, peering down at him with a thoughtful and satisfied expression. Then after a short moment of silence, the man spoke to him again. 

"That was good," Peter grinned wetly, "Real good," he praised more deeply, as his grin spread a little wider, "I always knew you were a good boy, Mickey," Peter said, "'Cause good boys do what they're told to do, and that's just what you did." He reached down to ruffle the boy's hair, ignoring the flinch that arose from the contact, "And that's what you should always do," Peter advised softly, yet firmly, grasping the small tuft of hair within his palm just the slightest bit, "Makes it easier for both of us," he said quietly. 

The little boy lay frozen beneath the man's hand, and said nothing, darting his eyes away and keeping them anywhere but on Peter. The man watched him, keeping his hand on his head, then gave it a little shake to make Mickey look at him, which he did, very hesitantly. 

"And remember," Peter added, then raised an index finger to his lips, "Shhh. This is our little secret," he reminded, "Just you and me," he said. 

Mickey still didn't speak, didn't attempt to react, just looked away again and tried his best not to cry anymore until Peter was out of his bedroom. There were a long few moments where Peter just continued to stand there and stare down at him but didn't say anything. Then finally he released his grasp on the little boy's hair and let his hand drop down to his side. 

"Go to sleep," Peter directed simply, then turned to let himself out of Mickey's room, and back into the party with his father and uncles. 

Mickey remembered pulling his sheet up to his face and trying to blow his nose on it, all the while more tears had begun streaming down his cheeks, and he just wanted to disappear. He remembered wanting to vomit, the overwhelming feeling of sickness clinging tightly to every part of his body. And it was this same sensation that always awoke him from his nightmares, with the very same jolt off his mattress to run and huddle over his toilet in the dark, rippling his skin in a cold, clammy sweat.

Floyd was immediately beside him, obviously having been either awoken abruptly, or simply launched out of bed from his master's movements. He moved his body between the toilet bowl, and Mickey's kneeling body that bowed over it, then walked around him to nuzzle the entire side of his body against Mickey's back. 

The dark haired man shuddered, and trembled as he tried to breathe with his mouth hung open and a steady stream of saliva flowed down from his lower lip. He then swished his tongue around in his mouth for a second, hawked his throat back hard, and spat down into the remains of his dinner that swirled around in front of him. Mickey brought one hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, then rubbed roughly at his brow with a heavy, raspy exhale.

The disgust and repulsion never go away. The shame and embarrassment never go away. The scars that such experiences leave behind, even when unseen to absolutely everyone else, never go away either. And Mickey wasn't sure which was worse: Having to relive these traumatic events every single night within the lonesomely intimate vulnerability of his sleep? Or the inescapable wave of emotions that would come washing over him in a forceful rush every time he awoke from it afterwards? That's when all the feelings of pain and humiliation, of betrayal and anger would come back with a tremendous force. Mickey would constantly be thrust into this insecure, self-pitying, self-hating, depressive state that felt nearly incurable, and deep down it all really scared him quite a bit. It would last for hours, sometimes the entire night and well into the next day, like a stench in the air around you that just won't dissipate.

Mickey has thought about ending things before, had even tried a few times in the past, but not too much in recent years. Every once in a while though, the idea is tempting. It's just the thought of quiet, the thought of rest, the thought of peace. But then like now, Floyd would rub up against him with the soft, bushy fur of his body, warm and purring loudly, telling him that it was okay, that he wasn't alone, that he could still feel something different, something that didn't hurt. And it would make him think again, most of the time. Mickey would also think of his sister and how heartbroken she would be, how much she would cry, how badly such a thing would hurt her, and he could rarely ever bring himself to attempt it, not anymore.

He also didn't want to give Peter that power over him anymore, whether the man was still alive and kicking or not, which he was. That man was the entire reason that Mickey had fought so hard to get out of the household and lifestyle he'd been raised in, worse than his father by miles. In a way, it gave him a reason to want something better than what he'd had before, no matter how miniscule of an improvement it seemed. And Mickey refused to ever give Peter the satisfaction of seeing that what he'd once put him through, made break him that completely, even if he never saw him anymore at all. 

But even with Floyd as a small comfort, and his sister as an ocassional support line, Mickey was still cripplingly lonely. And even if he'd never admit it, sometimes he still wished he had someone else there, another person to be a physical support and comfort when times felt really dark. Or when he'd have a particularly awful night terror like tonight and awoke to his hollow, empty cave of an apartment. Someone who wouldn't make him talk about it, wouldn't make him explain, but would just simply _be_ there, be _here_ , _with_ him. Because being alone with it, and having remained alone with it for so long, it was just getting harder and harder to keep it all together. 

Mickey needed to find a friend, in the very least, and he was starting to realize the fact more and more. He lacked companionship on a level that neither Floyd nor his sister could provide him with, even if it wasn't romantic. And even if the particular subject of his night terrors or the reason behind them never came up, (which he highly doubted that he may ever realistically be comfortable enough to do so) maybe just having someone else around for some kind of positive outlet could be beneficial for him in the long run. It could be a distraction, and maybe over time, something that even become enjoyable, which Mickey thought didn't really seem all that bad. 

Then Mickey suddenly remembered his conversation with Ian on the train ride home about having fun, doing things simply out of enjoyment and wondered how many friends and hobbies and interests that redheaded idiot must have. He always seemed so happy and easy going, almost uncomfortably so, like there was nothing in the world that would ever bother him a bit. He's _such a nice guy_ after all, right? Was that the secret to it? Just fill up your time with people, shit, and things, all while plastering a big, dumb smile to your face and everything would just magically be okay? Mickey found it pretty hard to believe, but looking at Ian, he honestly wondered if that's really all it took.

As he sat on rough, chilly tile of his bathroom floor for the thousandth night in a row, crosslegged and staring at the toilet across from him, Floyd had curled up inside his lap and fell back asleep. The lucky little bastard lay in a plump, little ball snoring away while Mickey remained exhausted, but unable and unwilling to go back to his bed. Then soon the sun began to rise, and the slightest bit of golden light began gleaming in through a faintest crack in his window blind, hitting him in the eye and making him close it with a groan. 

Mickey's noise had startled Floyd, who opened his own eyes and raised his head to look at him quizzically for a moment. Mickey rubbed at his lids with the heels of his palms, then peered down at his cat with an exhale through his nose. He dropped one hand to scratch behind Floyd's ear, who once again began to purr, then scooped him up into his arms as he finally rose from the floor. 

He plopped Floyd down on his couch as he went to his kitchen, beginning to prepare a pot of coffee because he knew he was going to need the extra kick today, and it was still too early for work just yet. Mickey felt stiff and ragged as he moved, but just ignored it, because that's what he was good at. And for now he just waited for a little more time to pass, and the day could start, just so it could end the same way it always would. Mickey knew today was going to be a long one too, he could feel it, especially if Ian finds him again on the L the very first thing, like the man seemed to indicate to him the night before that he might do. 

Weirdly though, even after the nearly sleepless night that he'd had, and his particular aversion to morning conversation in general, Mickey wasn't entirely dreading the train with Ian again. Not after all the thinking that he'd been doing, the talk he had with his sister, or even the few awkward conversations that he'd already had with the man. 

Maybe Ian really didn't seem so bad, and Mickey was just being his normal, somewhat overly stubborn self, that was just looking for a reason to be contrary to those around him? And maybe for once everyone else was right, and he should just give the guy a chance, right? Maybe it was as simple as that, and he'd just have to take the chance to see for himself. 

After all, what's the worst that could happen?

**Author's Note:**

> All feedback is encouraged and appreciated!  
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
